Broken Hearted
by EscapedRabbitBlueBell
Summary: After John finds himself drunk, strange things are happening for Sherlock: he is starting to realize he cares about John. But what will happen when John suffers from amnesia? Post-Reichenbach and sort of an AU; Moriarty is still alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: first story for me, would love to have some positive criticism but be gentle, please. :)**

**EDIT: The spelling with help from jack63kids (I appreciate your help, so thank you again!). I'm sorry if bothered anyone, I really didn't mean to. I promise it'll get better.**

**EDIT 2: Okay, I wanted to explain something for a while: I can understand why people are not reading anymore because of chapter 1: I'm not really proud of this chapter. I want to rewrite it soon, so I wanted to ask you, beloved readers, for forgiving me if you don't/didn't like this chapter. It would be great if you guys just read further, I think after that, you can decide if you don't like the story. The chapters are getting longer, I promise.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"They are recruiting again for the Special Ops." Andy said when the laughter came to an end. John and his friends from the army were in the pub; remembering old stories, laughing with or at each other and drinking beer. Lots of beer.

"I didn't know that. Since when?" John asked curiously, he missed the army. It was horrible, but he missed it. But, even if he wanted to go, he felt like he couldn't. Sherlock needed him as a friend/assistant/pet. He didn't know what he was. "They started a couple of weeks ago. They said they're recruiting till the first day of January."  
God, John wanted to go so bad. But he wsa getting older and people needed him here, in London. _Damn it John. Now you are just making excuses for yourself_. Jack, Andy, Ronald, Chris and Peter wanted another beer. "Johnny boy! Don't be sad! You are here with us! Drink another beer!" 'Another' became six] beers. All he could do, or anyone at the bar, was laugh, make jokes and drinking drink beer.

After a while John felt dizzy, and he decided he should go back to 221B. It's a 5 minute walk, but he should take a cab. When he put his arm up in the air and shouted "Taxi!", he could feel the world spinning and almost fell. A cab stopped, and the cab driver helped him in. John could manage to say '221B Baker Street please.' He felt a turn and he felt a little sick."Oi! We're here mate." John gave him a 20 pound note and walked, well you couldn't really call it walking, towards his home. He grabbed his keys from his pockets and tried to unlock the door . After 10 minutes, he managed to open the door. When John had shut it, he felt drowsy and…

passed out.

* * *

Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment when Mrs. Hudson came in. "Sherlock, John needs help. I can't drag him on my own you know, I've got my bloody hip."

Sherlock sighed and walked downstairs. He saw John lying at the bottom of the stairs, his head on the first step and his keys in his hands. Clearly passed out. John, I thought you were better than this. Sherlock dragged him upstairs with John's collar in his hand. "I'm going to sleep, dear. Good luck." And Mrs. Hudson went to her own room. Sherlock grumbled, he didn't like this. He was in the throws of a vital experiment for goodness sake!

John opened his eyes. "Hello!" He smiled. Sherlock grumbled. They were already in John's bedroom and Sherlock threw John on the bed. "God, you're so gorgeous." John blurted out , but he didn't seem to notice he said that. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He decided he'd ignore it. When Sherlock pulled his jacket out, John grabbed him by his jaw. "You. Are. So. Beautiful." John said, with every word a kiss.

_So this is what those people are talking about. Not bad, not bad at all. Although John smells of alcohol, but I can live with that. _Sherlock let him kiss him. John pulled Sherlock on the bed, and continued kissing_. _Sherlock closed his eyes and… it stopped? He looks looked at John. Asleep._ Really, John?_ He closed his eyes again. But Sherlock didn't go anywhere. He liked this.

* * *

John could hear the birds sing. It hurt so bad. He opened his eyes and saw… Sherlock? Bloody hell! He quickly checked to see if his jeans were still on. He confirmed that they were, and sighed in relieve. "Were you afraid we did something… other than kissing?" John flinched. He didn't know Sherlock was awake. Then again, Sherlock was a very light sleeper. "Kissing? I didn't kiss you." John felt confused. Sherlock turned around and he gave John a do-you-believe-that-yourself-look. John thought back: he remembered coming home, but then… nothing. Something must've happened.

Without saying anything, John left his bed and went to the bathroom to take a shower. His headache was bad, very bad, but John couldn't give attention to that. He had just woken, in his bed, with Sherlock. And they had kissed. John always thought he would remember something like that. He wanted to know what had happened. But Sherlock was not really the 'sitting down and talk about everything even if it's personal'-type. He turned the shower off, dried himself with a towel and saw that he had forgotten his underwear. Bloody hell! He can't just come out of the bathroom with only a towel around his bum, after what had happened.

Sherlock is probably busy with an experiment, or is busy reading a file. John reassured himself. He sighed and opened the door. He picked up his clothes and went into his bedroom. He saw the man in his bed, examining John. "Goddamnit Sherlock! Get out! Get out of my bedroom!" Sherlock went to the living room, while John was calming himself down.

* * *

Sherlock was interested in John. He liked the kissing and he liked being in bed and cuddling with John. He wanted more. Sherlock was confused. He never felt something like this before. It is almost like he cared… Yes. Yes, he cared about John. And John cared about him too. He was his friend. Perhaps more?

Sherlock needed something. Cocaine? No, John would go crazy about that. Nicotine patches. Yes. He grabbed 3 nicotine patches and placed them on his arm. His eyes closed, and he began thinking. Well, he was about to think when John came in the room, yelling.

"What is wrong with you? Don't you know anything about limits?"

"John, I have to confess something."


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: Reviews are always welcome: they'll make my stories better!  
**

**EDIT: Grammar, I want to thank jack63kids for her help.**

* * *

John looked at Sherlock. Did he meant the confession? John asked many times if it were true, and every time Sherlock confirmed the question. The confirmed love, as John saw it, was like a dream for John. He couldn't believe it, but he was very happy since. Finally, John didn't have to fake it anymore. After a long time, John could finally say anything that showed John's feeling. Well, he didn't know what to say, because he and Sherlock both don't like labeling things. But they liked each other. After Sherlock confessed two days ago he liked kissing John, they were being delighted to have the presence of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft needed their help: Moriarty bailed the two most dangerous assassins out from prison. Moriarty gave them needles with an unknown poison in it. Target: unknown, but John had a pretty good idea.

Sherlock had to figure out what the poison was and decide if the killers were dangerous to civilians or not. Since taking on the case, Sherlock didn't give John any attention. John understood that but _come on, not one kiss_? One word about two days ago other than the _stupid_ case?

* * *

Sherlock had known John wanted attention from him, and he wanted to give it so badly. But if he were to do that, his thoughts would be somewhere else other than Mycroft's case. John thought the target was Sherlock, but he didn't know Moriarty. Moriarty wanted to hurt Sherlock, and Sherlock knew exactly how Moriarty would do that: by poisoning John. It was a stupid, stupid mistake that he told John he liked him. 'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock'. He could hear Mycroft say that sentence over and over.

If they wanted to kill John, they would do it as fast as possible. Moriarty had probably told them to attack John if he was alone, or not with Sherlock. He was the only one who could recognize them or at least save John. Since Mycroft had left 221B, John wasn't alone. Sherlock needed him to be alone, if he wanted to protect John.

* * *

"We're out of milk."

"I'm aware of that."

"Could you buy some, John?"

John looked at Sherlock as if he just said that he believes in fairies. "Since when do you ask for milk, and why do you ask it so nicely? You never ask something nicely." Sherlock sighed.

"Because I care about you John. I don't want you to leave."

John shook his head. "No, no, no. You want me to leave, because you somehow contacted the killers or one of them, and you want to talk or something like that. I'm not stupid, you know. And why would I leave you? Because you didn't ask for milk nicely? You'll have to do better than that."

"Come on, John. It's a nice day. _And_ it is three o'clock, no one would or could kill me without notice. _And_ Mrs. Hudson is here. _And_ Mycroft will probably have his best men watching 221B. There is nothing to worry about, I'll stay here. I promise."

"Fine." John still looked suspicious. He knew Sherlock was up to something, but he didn't know what. He grabbed his wallet, put on his jacket and left to grab some milk from the store.

Something was definitely going on and Sherlock wasn't going to tell him. But John wanted to know, even if it was bad for him. They were in a relationship now, right? He didn't know what he was to Sherlock, but he knew Sherlock did care about him. And John cared about him, too. So why wouldn't he tell John the secret Sherlock knew? John's mum always told him that communication was the key to a good relationship. He knew that, Sherlock probably did not. _This was so frustrating_! John decided he must be vigilant to know what Sherlock was up to.

He turned around the corner of the street, while he was looking at 221B: he saw a man walking the same direction as he was with a dark leather coat, brown trousers and fancy shoes. He was a little fat, but he couldn't decide whether it was from eating or hiding something under his jacket. Unfortunately John had not seen more of the man: he walked too fast.

Everything was normal after that: he just walked to the shop and bought some milk. He was about to grab his keys when he noticed that the door was open. He dropped the milk, because he didn't cared about the purchase at all. He started to be alert again: he walked as silent as he could towards and up the stairs. He saw something moving, but not on the stairs: next to the stairs. It was Mrs. Hudson, lying down. She stared, with her face blank, at the ceiling and she muttered: "No, not my son! Not my son!" the whole time.

John would've gone to her to help her: but if he had done that, the people in 221B might hear it. There's no way he's going to risk that.

The fact that the door of Sherlock and John's living room was closed was extremely annoying for John. He looked through the keyhole: he saw Sherlock through it. Sherlock sat on a chair, strapped with thick rope. He saw his Swiss' pocket knife on the table. If only he could reach it and untie Sherlock's rope. Sherlock had looked very confused, like he didn't know where to look or where he was.

John didn't see any other men, but that didn't mean they aren't there. There was no way that the killers, men or whoever they are, are going to leave Sherlock. He was too valuable to leave. _Yes John, why did you leave him? You know he is valuable, not only to killers but to you too. You knew something was wrong and Sherlock had discovered something, and you left him? What the hell were you thinking, John? Were you even thinking at all?_ John had to calm himself. Angry means sloppy, and it costed him time. He thought some more. If he was going to go inside, he had to go immediately to the right, before anyone puts a needle or a knife in him. They are waiting for something.

_Me._

He texted Mycroft the address, to be sure, but Mycroft probably already knew about his brother. John knew if Lestrade came, he wouldn't be able to do anything to help them. If they would be in danger, Mycroft could help more than Lestrade.

He sighed and opened the door fast. He immediately moved to his right side, against the wall. Sherlock's face was blank, but John could detect a sadness in his eyes.

A manly voice began to speak to him. "So nice of you to check to see if your friend is okay, Doctor."

The footsteps were coming from the kitchen.

"You were waiting a long time before you came in, John."

John knew the voice.

"Hello John."

Moriarty smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello readers! I want to thank you for reading this, and I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter. I'm sorry it took so long to update the 'Broken hearted'-series, life sort of happened. I can understand why some people don't understand the title, _yet._ I know it sounds obvious, but it's not a break-up. I can tell you that. :)**

**I also want to say thanks to the people who've posted a review and/or are following/favoriting the story.**

**EDIT: Thank you, jack63kids for beta-ing my story, and all my current chapters so far! :)**

**Review, PM, follow and favorite are appreciated!**

* * *

"You two are so obvious. What makes you think I would hurt John, Sherlock? I couldn't do that. It's not like me, it's not what I would do and I wouldn't do anything less violent than that. Oh, and Johnny Boy: I can't hurt Sherlock either. Now, the question is: 'What will he do to us then?'," He said in a high-pitch voice. "Do you want to know my secret? Should I tell it to you?".

Moriarty continued smiling, it sickened John. How could a man be so evil? Just because he is bored, he wants to see the world burn? He can turn on the TV and watch some cheesy soaps for that. Or, even better, he can make his own soaps just the way he likes them. Moriarty wouldn't do that. That's easy. He can hear Sherlock saying it. And of course, John feels stupid because of Sherlock.

"John, would you pay attention, please?" Moriarty's smile was gone. "Don't you want to know my secret?"

"I want you to go away."

Moriarty smirked. "Do you really think I would do that, Doctor?"

"No, but it's what I want."

"Nobody cares what YOU want!"

John flinched, but he didn't show it. He saw horrible, horrible things in Afghanistan. Things he didn't want to see again. Things he didn't want to even hear. But Moriarty topped that. Of course, he can't show Moriarty that he's afraid of the man.

"No, no. I'm not obvious." Moriarty continued. "I will burn the heart out of you both."

_Well, that wasn't surprising._

"And how I would do that, is my secret. I think you can figure it out, Sherlock. But you won't, because I know you don't even want to know."

Sherlock had sat in the chair with ropes around him. He hadn't said anything while Moriarty was in the room since John came in. He looked really confused, but very sharp too. _Had he been drugged?_ John didn't know. He tried to observe and deduce, but it was impossible. Sherlock was a fantastic actor. John didn't see any physical damage or a needle sticking anywhere. That didn't mean he'd been drugged, of course. Even if Sherlock looked vague, he would still be more observant than John. The doctor felt stupid, again.

"I want to know everything. And you know that, too."

"Yes, Sherlock. We are so alike, except for one little, tiny thing: I already know everything."

Moriarty snapped his fingers and two grown man, he recognized one from earlier when he went out for milk, followed him. John had thought that he, Sherlock and Moriarty were the only ones in the room. _God, you're so bloody stupid, John_.

"Bye boys."

* * *

After Moriarty had left, John quickly untied Sherlock's ropes. Sherlock could slap himself for not foreseeing this performance of his arch-enemy. What's happening with him? First, all those strange feelings for John. It was pleasant, rather pleasant, but it was doing things to Sherlock he didn't want. He couldn't think clearly anymore.

He couldn't focus on any one thing, except for John. John was always there in his mind and it was driving the only consulting detective in the world insane. Was this what normal people called '_love_'? He was hating it. Second, he had been so stupid to have himself drugged. Luckily, John wasn't home.

One of the two ex-prisoners thought Mrs. Hudson was John, so he drugged her. He felt pity for her, but it was pleasurable to see Moriarty mad. Unfortunately, Moriarty had calmed down quickly when he thought it was better that way: Sherlock assumed this was because he could see John was suffering.

He hated every minute of Moriarty's presence, because it made John seem very fragile. As if he could break down any minute. But the detective knew the doctor: he wasn't going to do that. He would've kept strong, for Sherlock._ For me_.

Sherlock felt fuzzy and warm inside again. That happened every time he thought of John or John did something for Sherlock. It was time to reward John, after all he'd done.

After Mycroft's medical staff checked Sherlock to see if he was physically okay and he had convinced that he could stay here in Baker Street, Sherlock grabbed a needle, put it in his arm and somewhat drained the blood in the needle. Two drops were enough, but he knew John would yell at him, and he loved any attention from John.

He put the blood under a microscope and inspected the liquid from inside him.

He saw John laying on the couch watching TV. The detective decided that the empty space behind John had to be filled. Sherlock shook his head to file that thought in the map called 'Later'._ First blood, then John._

* * *

John felt a little drowsy, after he turned on the TV. The last he saw of Sherlock was shaking his head and he was a little frustrated after that. John heard grumbling after the doctor had closed his eyes.

Right now, he can only hear the TV. Suddenly, John felt a little pressure on his back. John opened one eye and he saw and felt Sherlock's hand hanging over his shoulder. _God, that man could disappear whenever he wants to_.

John felt Sherlock pulling him a little tighter while John kissed his hand. The blonde suspected all this romance was because of the drug Sherlock had inside him.

"John, why do you do this to me?"

"What am I doing then?"

"Because of you, I can't concentrate on anything else but you."

John felt happy, warm, fuzzy, loved and lucky inside. He never had or could expected that Sherlock was saying these things to him. He didn't expect him to be the romantic type, though Sherlock had just proved otherwise.

John turned, facing Sherlock. They looked each other in the eye, silently, and then they kissed.

It was not a normal kiss: it was a deep kiss, tongues involved. It was as if all the emotions experienced that afternoon were let out in this, romantic, personal and beloved kiss. After a long time, John finally said something.

"I don't want to lose you."

Sherlock answered in a kiss.

"I don't want to lose you either."


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm so, so, _so_ sorry that it took so long to update the story! I didn't have any inspiration this week, but I know what the next chapters will bring: so don't worry, I'll try to update them as soon as possible. This chapter is more of a casefic, and a lot of talking. If you skip this chapter, I'll promise you won't miss anything. I changed the titles as well, because they didn't have any meaning to the chapters. **

**Thank you for reading and enjoy!**

**EDIT: Thanks to my wonderful Beta jack63kids. :)**

* * *

"Yes?" John answered, after his phone rang.

"John, hello," John recognized the voice, it was Greg Lestrade. "Listen, I need you and Sherlock here. It's about a case. There had been several murders going on in London lately, and we have kept it from the press. I doubt that you know anything about it, but Sherlock might. The address is 54 Kendal Road. I don't have time to explain further, but I expect you and Sherlock within the hour."

"I'll come, and if necessary, I'll drag Sherlock along. See you in a bit."

"See you then." Lestrade hung up.

John went to the living room, where he saw Sherlock already in his coat: ready to go. He threw John's jacket towards the doctor, and yelled to Mrs. Hudson that they had to go. She only answered with an "Okay, dear."

"I expected you to refuse to go with me," John said, after they got in to the cab.

"Triple homicide, with chemicals, and no signs of break-in and fights. Of course I want to go."

John wanted to ask how he had known that, but he knew he would get answered with a sarcastic look. The doctor only wondered what kind of horribe things he'll be seeing in the next hour. Not that he minded, though.

His hand touched Sherlock's, and John began to blush. _What the hell? _John thought to himself. He knew that they were _way _past that point. "Oops, sorry." John had said, but Sherlock ignored it. He probably was thinking about the murders already.

It was about a twenty-minute drive: surprisingly, there wasn't much traffic. John saw a lot of police cars, and he had noticed right away that this was very, _very_ serious.

* * *

"Sherlock, John, hello, " Lestrade had greeted them. "There were three murders around London the last two weeks. The victims are women. They all had died in the bathroom, near the toilet and they were all around their thirties. The three women are all living on their own. They had nothing else common."

It seemed like Lestrade wanted to tell more about the murders, but Sherlock had interrupted him.

"Wrong."

Sherlock could almost feel John rolling his eyes. He didn't have to look: Sherlock knew Lestrade and John were talking with their eyes, in silence, while walking behind him.

Sherlock went through the hallway. He caught a glimpse of the living room. It was classy and neat. _Interesting. _The detective walked upstairs, where most of the forensic investigators were. He saw the third body in the bathroom. The bathroom wasn't very big, it only contained a toilet, a window and the necessary toilet-supplies. The second bathroom only had a bath, shower, sink and mirror: that was clean too.

Sherlock began to observe immediately.

_Body is four to six hours old. Normal but dirty clothes, so she didn't plan to leave the house. She was wearing gloves. Cleaning gloves, to be precise. Surprisingly, the other two victims hadn't worn any gloves. It's a mistake then. Ah, serial killers. You'll have to wait for a mistake._

Besides the vomit-smell, Sherlock smelled another strong scent. _Bleach._ Naturally, the investigators hadn't smelled it because they were concentrating on the smell of vomit. _Idiots._ He looked into the toilet. _Recently cleaned. _

John and Lestrade had come in, wearing blue protection suits.

"What do you see, John?"

John looked surprised. He cleared his throat. "Eh, a woman, around mid-thirties." He began.

"Vomit, probably poisoned," John went on. "She's wearing blue, plastic gloves, so she must've been cleaning."

"What do you smell?"

"Vomit, mostly."

Sherlock felt a little disappointed, apparently John had noticed that because he began hesitating.

"But, there's something else. Bleach?"

He looked proud. "Very good, John. Lestrade, we're going back to 221B. Do not check for any toxics, because you aren't going to find any. Goodbye."

* * *

Sherlock sat on the couch, in his thinking position, while John searched for something to eat.

_This place is so filthy. It'll take days for Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock _and _me__ to clean this house. _John stopped abruptly. Something had occurred to him. He walked towards the living room.

"Sherlock!"

There must've been something in his voice, because Sherlock never _ever_ turned his head if he was thinking. The detective was looking at John curiously.

"It'll take days to clean this house up, even if you aren't doing it alone."

"So what?"

"The murdered woman, her house was bigger.."

Sherlock began to smile vaguely.

"Her house was clean, it isn't even noon yet."

"And what does that mean, John?" He asked John hopeful.

"That means," John paused, while he was figuring it out. "That means, she can't have cleaned her house alone. She must've had help, because even if she started this morning, her house wouldn't be _this_ neat."

"John, you're on fire today. I knew you would figure it out."

"You knew that?"

"Of course."

John sighed. _Of course he knew. _He would probably know more about the murderer than anybody else would.

"What else do you know?"

"There were different murderers. I know that, because this one had made a mistake. If somebody was clever enough to make no mistakes the first two times, they wouldn't have made a mistake the third time. There is a connection between the two or possibly three murderers, because it's too much of a coincidence to find three bodies killed exactly the same way in two weeks. So, not that much."

_Yeah, not that much. _John was always amazed about how clever Sherlock was. When you think he topped it, he would push it a little further. He did loved that about Sherlock. The blonde doctor walked towards the clever detective and kissed him for a reward.

The kiss was broken by a sound, and they both realized it was John's belly. The doctor laughed and the detective smirked. John hadn't eaten all day. Sherlock took his hand, both put their coats on, and they walked towards the bakery.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't in the mood to go to a restaurant. He knew John liked the bakery too. He always looked grateful for the treats, especially the croissants. Sherlock could think best if they walked, he thought it was liberating. He could go wherever he wanted to go, and the detective would like to John come with him. However, London needed Sherlock and Sherlock needed London. It was the only way to not be bored.

"You need to eat too, you know." John pulled Sherlock back to reality. They were already in the bakery.

"I know you don't want to, but you haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Eating was dull. Drinking, sleeping and other human needs are too. It would be marvelous if Sherlock didn't need all that. The only thing that was holding back the way to live the life of a genius, was his body.

John ordered two croissants. He could smell the breads, and realized he was a bit hungry too. _If it wasn't for John..._

They both walked through Regent's park on their way back, while John attempted to start a conversation.

"Are you thinking about the case?"

"Yes." Sherlock lied.

He wasn't thinking about the case, because he already had known who the murderers were: the cleaners. _Obviously._ All three women, the fact that they were women was a coincidence, were killed by them. They had worked together as friends. Probably because they were sick of being looked down on. Their jobs didn't pay much, the people were not nice to them and they had the power of cleaning supplies. This was clear to him since he had seen the body: but he wasn't going to tell John that. He decided that John had to figure it out. _He must learn, too._

Not exactly the case Sherlock had wanted, but it seemed good enough at the beginning.

* * *

"How do you catch two murderous cleaners?" Sherlock asked John. The question was not entirely curious, John had noticed.

"Two? Why not three?"

"The other two victims have had the same cleaner. Her name is Chelsea Johnson. If she was the murderer of the recently killed victim, she wouldn't have made a mistake. So, two then. They're good friends or family to each other, because you have to trust your partner in crime. We only have to find out who the recent killer is."

"What mistake is it actually?"

"The gloves, John. The second killer didn't remove the gloves, most likely forgot about them. That fact confirms that she wasn't the first killer."

John knew Sherlock wanted him to solve the crime with him, Sherlock probably already knew who the other killer was. The blonde man didn't want to ask how he had known the name of the first killer: probably insulting and bothering the family or friends of the victims with questions.

"So, what can you tell about the unknown killer's personality?"

"Since when did you start interrogating me?"

"Answer the question, John. I know you can do it."

"The other murderer is probably nervous or not experienced like Johnson, because he or she has made a mistake. I prefer to think that they are family, because the trust-level must've been very high. You'll only trust each other so much if you've known him or her your whole life."

"Very well, John."

They were already in front of 221B. Sherlock opened the door and went upstairs. He had thrown his jacket on the ground and began to play on his violin. John picked the coat up, took his coat off and laid them both on the kitchen table. The blonde man saw paper, on the ground, on the table. _Everywhere. _He began to sort the paper.

"Don't clean up, John. We are expecting company in the next five or ten minutes."

"What kind of company?"

"A cleaning lady."

"Why do we need that? We have Mrs. Hudson and we are away all the time! You are not letting an unknown person search through your stuff."

Sherlock gave John a 'don't-you-get-the-reference' look.

"Ooh..." _That's brilliant!_

The bell of the doorbell rang. The blonde doctor went downstairs and had opened the door.

He saw a beautiful women waiting on the pavement. She had smooth, dark curly hair. Her eyes were green and they shone. If she wasn't a killer, John would definitely have asked her on a date. _Well, maybe two weeks ago. I'm Sherlock's now. Right?_

"Hello, I'm Chelsea Johnson. A certain Sherlock Holmes is expecting me. I'm here for an interview."

"Er, yes, hello. I'm Dr. Watson. I'm his flatmate. Come in." John stuttered, still amazed by her beauty. He pointed gently to the stairs, while he was closing the door.

* * *

Sherlock could hear John stuttering to Johnson. He felt a little jealous. _Focus, Sherlock. You're on a case._

Sherlock hadn't stopped playing the violin, but he could hear the footsteps. _Not small, not large either. Average weight. _As he turned around, he could understand why John was stuttering. She was indeed beautiful, but of course, he wasn't going to say that.

"Hello Miss Johnson, I am Sherlock Holmes." He had put his violin away, walked towards her and shook the woman's hand.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

"All right, Sherlock."

_Cheap clothes: she needs money. Callus on her fore-, middle- and ring finger. Bowler. Weekly. It is old, so approximately six or seven days ago._

"I shall get straight to the point. I need cleaning twice a week. I prefer Monday evening and sometime on Thursday."

"I can't clean on Monday, Sherlock. I have bowling practice every week. I can't quit that, it's my distraction."

_Bulls eye._

"I'm sorry then, I shan't be able to give you the position, Dr. Watson, would you be so kind to show her the way out."

"No! No, wait! I'm sorry. I can get my sister to clean your house on Monday."

"Agreed, I'll see your sister tomorrow morning around nine o'clock."

After she had left, Sherlock allowed himself to be a little proud.

"Congratulations, Sherlock."

"I haven't even cought the killer, yet."

"No, but you're about to."

With every word, John stepped a little closer. John hugged him. The detective hugged him back: he felt warm inside.

* * *

John opened the door. He saw a woman: she was not so pretty. Her eyes were soulless grey and her hair was messed up. John saw some similarities between their visitor from yesterday and this woman. Her clothes were messy and she had a little bag beside her.

"Hello, I'm here because I have to clean. My name is Lucy Johnson." Her voice was raw.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes isn't here today, but I'll help you clean. Come in, our living room is upstairs."

When she was upstairs, Lucy immediately began to clean. She put a blue mask on her mouth and nose. 'This is more sanitary', she had said. John didn't know what to do. Apparently she saw that, so she grabbed something from her little bag.

"You can clean the toilet with this, you have to drench the toilet brush in it, and then you can clean." She smiled, and it was not pretty. Lucy gave John a yellow, plastic jar with a blue liquid in it. "Do you need gloves?"

"Er, okay, thank you and no, I think I can manage without."

John had looked at his watch. _Five more minutes until Sherlock to came home, with police. _He had taken the jar and gone into the bathroom . His heart felt like it would beat his way out through John's chest. _This is suicide._ He grabbed the jar and the toilet brush. He had opened the window above the toilet. _Just to be safe. _He did what she told him to do, while his eyes and nose began to irritate. He began to cough, his lungs ached. Lucy came to check on him. She grinned.

John smelled something. He tried to really concentrate on the smell, but breathing ached. _Bleach and a normal, toilet cleaning supply. Fuck. I need to get out of here. _John heard police sirens and many footsteps on the stairs. He tried to push his body up, but he fell. The doctor's vision turned hazy. While he got another coughing attack, he tasted blood. _Diffuse pulmonary haemorrhage__. Great - sarcasm included.  
_

"JOHN!"

John tried to concentrate on the voice that he recognized, but failed. His breathing hurt too much. He felt pressure around his mouth: an oxygen mask.

"John, the medics are here. I'm going to stay with you. Everything is alright now."

John wasn't sure, but he thought he felt a soothing hand through his hair. John tried to relax, ignore the headache and his difficulty in breathing.

* * *

He felt stupid. God, he felt really stupid. _How could anyone be so ignorant? _

Sherlock was in a hospital, sitting beside a bed with a known man in it. The man was his best friend and more. Sherlock held John's hand. He felt sorry for John, he should've been there earlier. He should've see it through. Sherlock had no problem to discover the murderers, but he had some difficulties with _how _they were murdered. _Why didn't I stayed in 221B?_

A sound shook Sherlock out of his thoughts. It was John's, he was opening his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asked carefully.

The eyes looked at Sherlock.

"Welcome back." The brown-haired man swallowed. "John, I.."

"I am so sorry. I should've been there."

John finally spoke. "How long was I gone?" His voice was raw, like he never talked before.

"You were asleep for about one day." Sherlock continued. "You're on antibiotics: you have pneumonia, but I don't think you didn't know that already."

John coughed.

"What happened to Lucy?"

"She and her sister were put in jail. They did it because they were sick of people looking down at them. They wanted revenge. Obvious."

John smiled a little, and Sherlock felt warm inside... _Again._ After Sherlock had found John, he realized he cared about John. He cared a lot.

Sherlock's other hand went through John's hair, stroking him. "Go to sleep, John." Sherlock had whispered.

* * *

**When I got at the second part of the story, my internet decided to quit. I WENT CRAZY. So, I'm sorry if you got confused because it's a little vague: please review or PM me, so I can change that. **

**The next chapter is up in the next weekend, I hope, if it isn't a few days earlier. **


	5. Chapter 5

**I've said that I'd post this chapter in the weekend, but I guess I've had an energy boost :). It's only better, right? If you want to tell me or suggest something: PM me. Scratch that, if you just want to talk about the weather I'd be already happy :).**

**I think the next chapter is up this weekend.. but this chapter has already proven I'm bad at timing things.**

**I want to thank you all for reading and reviewing, and those who've sent a PM.**

**Enjoy!**

**EDIT: The grammar, thanks to my awesome beta jack63kids! Without her, this story wouldn't be half as good.**

* * *

A month had passed since John was discharged from the hospital. There were cases, but they were _dull_. At first, John couldn't go with Sherlock, because of his pneumonia, and John _hated_ it. Sherlock hated it too, and 'hating' was a light word. He needed an assistant. Sherlock had resented every minute of John's missing presence. He didn't say it, of course, but he knew that Lestrade noticed. He had pity written all over his face. Only John could show his feelings for Sherlock to him, and he allowed no one else to do it. He acted more sarcastic and mockingly towards Lestrade and everyone else than usual.

They hadn't heard from Moriarty since their last, personal conversation. Sherlock knew it would come. _Eventually._ The only consulting detective in the world regretted that he hadn't seen this coming. _Of course._ It was only a matter of time. Sherlock sat in the chair, wondering where it had gone wrong. He knew exactly where it had gone wrong: he shouldn't have left Baker Street.

* * *

Lestrade called Sherlock, asking for advice on a case. Naturally, Sherlock had gone to the Yard because he needed to see the photographs and details about the murder. He saw one picture and knew immediately who the killer was. The maid. The height where the man had been stabbed: it was in her reach. The angle showed it was from below, and the maid was the smallest. The man and the maid were having an affair, and she was mad that the man had chosen his wife, instead of her. _Obviously._

When Sherlock came home, he'd gone numb. Both doors were open, and when he got inside: there was a hole in the wall: made by a bullet. Good thing that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home because she was visiting her sister for the weekend. She would be hurt, most likely fatal. Sherlock went upstairs, where he found a yellow note.

'_I miss you. Do you miss me too?_

_xxx Jim'_

John wasn't there.

_John was gone._

Sherlock sat in the chair, wondering where it had gone wrong.

That morning, everything had been so peaceful. He hadn't slept the previous night, but was lying in bed: facing John. He caught himself staring at the blonde man but he smiled at the realization.

And now _this._

* * *

Mycroft was enjoying a cup of tea, when his phone rung. The day was bright, the sun had been shining but that all faded when he heard the first words of his brother.

"I need your help."

Silence.

His brother never asked for help, and if he did, he certainly wasn't asking the British government. Something had definitely gone wrong.

"What's wrong, dear brother?" Mycroft asked, with concern in his voice.

"John's gone."

No, it can't be… Really? Yes, he was certain. Mycroft felt something twitch in his stomach. It was worry. Apparently, Mycroft had feelings. John was an ordinary bloke, but Mycroft did like him. He cared about his brother: he made Sherlock better. His brother did care about John too and therefore Mycroft cared about John. He was more intelligent than an average person, with good instinct, well developed in the army. The blonde doctor could handle himself under stress. That is an extraordinary trait. You won't find it in every soldier, but everyone is trained for it. But for the doctor, it came naturally. _He wasn't an idiot._

"Who has taken him?"

"Moriarty."

Another twitch. Moriarty could be really annoying sometimes.

"I'll see what I can do."

He didn't hang up yet, because Sherlock was going to say something else.

"Thank you." You could barely hear it, but his brother said it. He definitely said it. Mycroft showed a small smile, very small, but it was a genuine smile.

He pressed the red button and texted Anthea.

**[1:08 PM] SENT TO: ANTHEA**

**Put our best men on Moriarty. Find out what he has been doing lately. Try to locate him.**

Mycroft pressed 'Send', and let out a dramatic sigh. He sipped his tea.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't find anything in 221B. Except for a bullet hole in the wall downstairs, it was a .22 but the bullet was nowhere to be found, Moriarty's men didn't leave any traces.

He decided that he didn't want to tell Mrs. Hudson about her apartment and about John. She would've come home and cared for the detective. The brown-haired man couldn't deal with that. _Not today._ However, John would probably prefer that Sherlock cared for himself. Then he would eat, drink, shower and sleep. And come looking for him, of course.

But Sherlock had nothing to go on: there weren't any traces that could reveal the identity of the men, or where they were heading to. It frustrated him. He wanted to yell, throw something or break something. He wanted to get rid of his anger, frustration and his worries.

Sherlock sat in the chair, wondering where it had gone wrong. He had closed his eyes.

'_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.'_

'_Sentiment is found on the losing side.'_

_I KNOW THAT. I bloody know that._ He hated his feelings. This situation was caused by _feelings._

His mobile phone started to vibrate. _Text._

**[1:29 PM] RECEIVED FROM: UNKNOWN**

**Don't worry; I won't hurt John, yet. – JM**

Sherlock shivered. _What the hell? _He wasn't afraid of Moriarty. _Do you really believe that Sherlock?_

**[1:31 PM] SENT TO: UNKNOWN**

**What are you planning to do with him anyway, you have men with ten times more skilled than him? – SH**

_That wasn't sharp, Sherlock. _But it was after all, _John,_ that they were talking about. Of course Sherlock had cared. _Still cared._ However, he didn't want to let Moriarty know that.

**[1:32 PM] RECEIVED FROM: UNKNOWN**

**Let's just say, he has to take care of me, my men and women. - JM**

Those words made Sherlock sick. He knew Moriarty could be perverted sometimes, so he didn't want to know more. He only cared about John. _Was he alright? Did he get treated well? Where is John?_

_Where is John? _Sherlock didn't know. He was the world's first and only consulting detective, he should know! Moriarty said that he and Sherlock were made for each other: then he should be capable of finding John. But, apparently not. The detective had done all that he could do: contacting Mycroft. There were certainly no clues left behind in 221B: Sherlock had looked for them for about thirty minutes, and if _he_ couldn't find anything, there wasn't anything for him to go on.

Sherlock got out of his chair, and walked over to the kitchen. He grabbed _John's_ kettle and filled it with water. He turned the switch on, and it began to boil water. _This is what John would do, right? Right? _

Meanwhile, Sherlock decided to look at the note Moriarty had left. Moriarty was truly a crazy person. He was sick. A freak. Sherlock was considered a normal person when he was being compared to Moriarty.

But this was _dull,_ really. Kidnapping? _Ordinary. Boring. _He thought his _real_ archenemy was better than that. It was enough to let Sherlock feel, though.

_Click._

Sherlock grabbed _their_ teacups, made his tea ready and went back to his chair. He picked _John's _laptop up, and opened it. Sherlock decided that he would make John change his password, once he comes back, because it's really too easy. It took Sherlock not even a minute to crack his password, for the _first_ time. _When John came back…_

When would that be? Tomorrow? Several weeks? Months? _Years?_ No, Sherlock couldn't wait for John that long. He was pretty sure John couldn't wait that long for Sherlock either.

No, waiting wouldn't do it for them. But what else could he do? It's not that he had so much to go on: he only knew that Moriarty had taken him. That was it: no footprints, no notes (except the note Moriarty had left), no blackmail, no instructions. It was _torture. _At least, for Sherlock. He wasn't certain about John. He hoped John wasn't being tortured, because if he was, Moriarty and his minions would _die._ They would go through _hell._

He didn't know for sure what Moriarty had meant by 'He has to take care of me, my men and women', but somewhow Sherlock didn't wanted to know. Moriarty could be perverse sometimes, but would that include John too? As far as Sherlock knew and had deduced, Moriarty was jealous of John. He wasn't going to assault him, at least not without Sherlock there to witness it.

That left him with another option: John must be there to actually take care of Moriarty and his henchmen. He has to treat them if they became injured. That means that Moriarty must treat John well, because he needs him as a doctor. But why did his archenemy need John? He could hire or force someone else to do it. Or could it just be to irritate and torture Sherlock? Not physically of course, but emotionally. Moriarty was better at the latter.

So many questions and Sherlock didn't have an answer for any of them. Normally, Sherlock would have found an answer by now. No, scratch that. He would have John back already.

The brown-haired man didn't have to type in John's password, because John didn't turn his laptop off. _You really need to be careful about that, John. _He sighed: and that wasn't the only thing_._


	6. Chapter 6

**I want you to know that this chapter and the last were incredibly difficult to write: Sherlock and Mycroft are some very hard characters to write in their POV. Please forgive me for any mistakes.  
I love to get some reviews! They keep me motivated (=faster updates****) and make the story better.**

**Warning: If you haven't seen the Reichenbach fall yet (I want to congratulate you: it is an amazing achievement), but you don't mind spoilers, you can read further. If you don't want to know anything about the Fall before you've watched it: I recommend to not read further. There are spoilers of the Fall in this story. (Not so many, but it can ruin the episode for you.)**

* * *

It was Sunday late in the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson ordered a cab, and gave her adress. She had missed Sherlock and John; they were always so entertaining. _No, that isn't the right word for it._ It was more like, lovable? Amusing? No, she didn't have the right word for it. Sherlock had done something very special for her: he got rid of her husband.

She found out later, because Sherlock told her, that her husband had murdered her son. _Their _son. She felt tears coming, but she pressed them away. She was stronger now. She had her boys now.  
The landlady didn't know why he had murdered their son. In her eyes, he had done nothing wrong. But then again, her husband wasn't as loving and forgiving as she was. After her husband was executed, she couldn't even remember why she had started to love him.

She loved Sherlock and John as if they were her sons. They weren't, though. That had made them so special. So when she found out that John was kidnapped, her heart had broken.

The landlady had given the cabby some money, and dragged her bags in her house. When she was inside, she yelled if Sherlock or John could help her. After all, she wasn't _that_ young anymore. No answer. She, as unknowing as she is, thought that they were busy on a case. Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen the bullet-hole in the wall.

She left her bags in the hallway and went upstairs to check if no-one was home. If somebody was home, _well_, she wanted tea anyway, so the loving woman could ask if they wanted anything.

She went upstairs, and saw Sherlock sitting in his chair. She didn't saw Sherlock's face, and she had regretted that later. "Hello, dear. Do you want some tea?" She smiled, as the landlady always did.

He hadn't said anything. When she walked to the kitchen, she had complained about the mess Sherlock always made. Mrs. Hudson saw John's kettle, and felt that it was still warm. That confused the landlady. She didn't saw John anywhere, and she knew that Sherlock didn't make tea for himself.

"Sherlock, where's John?" She had asked, cautiously.

This time, she had seen Sherlock's face. It was horrible: the loving woman didn't have seen anything like this before. Well, she had, but it was never on Sherlock's face. It was full of worry, regret and sorrow. It had been _fragile _and _human. _She cursed herself for thinking that way about Sherlock. Sure, he wasn't a master in showing emotions, but he was still, and would always be, a _human._

* * *

Sherlock had never cried. He had never _truly_ cried. He had always thought that it was _dull._ Not when his parents died, not when he was getting off the drugs. Yes, he had cried, but it was acting. However, people still believed the detective actually cried, like when he was at the top of St. Barts', preparing to jump. It was actually hurtful to see John that way he was back then, but still: the tears were not real.

That's why Sherlock was so puzzled when he saw wet stains on his pillow. He didn't try to stop them: he let them flow.

He missed John. He missed him so much. Sherlock missed his smell, warmth, smile, voice and even his complaints to Sherlock.

The detective decided that this would not work, he could not sleep. He went to the kitchen to make some tea in _John's_ kettle. He looked at the time on his mobile phone, 02.27 AM. It's been exactly 35 hours and 52 minutes since John's gone.

_John is gone._

Another thing caught his eye on the screen: it was a text message. Sherlock wasn't surprised he didn't hear the text, because he's thinking about John all the time. _Just the basic stuff, really. _How to rescue him, what to say to him when he is rescued, if he should thank Mycroft or not… He probably has to thank him, because John wants him to do that.

**[10:40 PM] RECEIVED FROM: MYCROFT**

**Brother, dear. I'm visiting you at 07:00 AM. I have news about John.**

Those words filled Sherlock with hope. He wasn't confused, because he was used to emotions and feelings since John is gone. Still, 'news' didn't mean 'good news'. Sherlock was also relieved to hear from John in a couple of hours. Mycroft would probably know where John was, if he was alive…

That thought _did_ scare Sherlock. What would he do if John wasn't alive anymore? He would most likely want to die with him, but Sherlock can't trust Moriarty if his archenemy is going to say that. He could say it to scare, confuse and/or make the detective angry.

No, no. Moriarty is not going to kill John. John was the product (in Moriarty's eyes) to make Sherlock miserable. And Moriarty had succeeded, so far.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the chair when Sherlock heard a noise of an opening door. He hadn't looked at the clock, because he knew Mycroft would be exactly on time.

"Hello brother." Mycroft said.

Sherlock observed his brother. He wore his usual suit again, but this time he had something in his hand. It was a laptop-case. Sherlock was surprised that Mycroft would carry something heavier than a couple of grams in his hands.

"What is it?"

"Moriarty contacted me. He told me to buy a laptop and demanded me to download 'Skype' on it. I'm sure you know what it is, so I don't have to inform you. In exactly 15 minutes, he would contact you on this laptop. We only get one chance to talk to him or John, I do not know exactly who's going to talk."

"Tea, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked surprised and nodded. Sherlock walked up to the kitchen and let the water boil. He didn't want to let Mycroft know that his brother was glad about the news. It was odd that Sherlock offered him tea but this way, he could smile silently.

"We don't know if it's any _good_ news, Sherlock." His voice was steady.

Sherlock decided to ignore Mycroft's last sentence. "Do you want some biscuits, dear brother?" He asked, in a teasing tone.

"I'm on a diet." Mycroft smiled, _fake, of course._

"Did you take a security test on it?" Sherlock pointed at the laptop.

"Yes, except for a tracking device, there's nothing peculiar about it." Mycroft answered. "Apparently, Moriarty just wants to_ talk_."

Sherlock gave Mycroft a cup of tea, and then he sat on his chair with his tea. They both were drinking silently. The detective, _prepare for it,_ felt nervous. He was nervous to talk to John. _Was he okay? Where was he? When is he coming back?_

The man known as the British government gave his younger brother the laptop. "Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock watched his brother closely. Mycroft would never leave, and he certainly is not going to ask for it. Not in this situation. So the younger brother let out a small laugh.

Sherlock turned the laptop on, and looked at the time: 7.12 AM. He felt his heartbeat.

The detective searched quickly for any messages hidden somewhere in the laptop, but he knew deep down that he would not find any.

7.14 AM. Sherlock opened Skype.

7.15 AM. Chat request.

7.15 AM and take or give 30 seconds. Chat request accepted, after he had sighed.

The laptop opened a new window, with 'Webcam chat' on it. It loaded and.. there was John.

Sherlock had a lump in his throat, but he'd wanted to talk anyway.

"_John_."


	7. Chapter 7

**First off: GAH. I've gotten so frustrated while writing this chapter, it was so bloody difficult and after a while the words didn't make any sense. I'm sorry that this chapter took so long to write, I didn't mean to take so long. **

**I realized I was going waaaaaaayy too fast with the chapters, so I am going to slow down or make them longer. After I wrote this chapter, I decided to improve my last chapters (grammar, style of writing and such). So chapter 8 will come a little late, but I hope you all would understand. **

**To the guest who left the last review: I really am sorry about my grammar, I try not to make them. I appreciate all the help and comments I get, even the criticism (well, constructive ones).**

**Things you should know: **

**- ISAF = International Security Assistance Force.**

**- The Afghanistan war is real, and I would like to give my respects to everyone who's out there. **

**Again: I would love to get some reviews or PM's. **

**Thank you for reading and enjoy!**

**EDIT: Grammar with help from my lovely beta 'jack63kids'. I want to thank her for her effort, I am really appreciating it. **

* * *

When Moriarty and the two ex-prisoners (well, they were still supposed to be in prison) entered 221B, John thought that they were Sherlock, so didn't pay much attention to them . He hadn't heard the multiple footsteps, because they were careful to not be heard (except for slamming the door, probably to mislead John to believe that it was Sherlock who had come in).

When he saw Moriarty through the door, he cursed himself for leaving his gun in his bedroom. It was really not an option to fight, as he saw the two men behind the criminal mastermind. But he knew he was a soldier, he decided that he at least had to _try. _John said that Sherlock wasn't here and in reply to that Moriarty laughed at him and snapped his fingers. As the men came up to the doctor he realized that they were at least five inches taller than he was. One had brown short hair, and the other black.

The black-haired man brought his two arms up in the air, as if he was trying to hug John. The soldier knew that that wasn't the case, and he grabbed one hand of the man, and pushed his fingers backwards, till they snapped like distant gunshot. The man didn't scream; he was probably used to much worse. While John was busy with the black-haired man, the brown-haired man already had jabbed a needle with presumably the same liquid from a couple of weeks ago (they had more than two needles, John figured) in John's thigh.

The drug worked fast to confuse John, but he didn't blacked out. John wasn't sure if it was because he fought against the drug, or the drug deliberately did this, this _torture._ He didn't feel well; it was as if there was fire inside of him, beginning in his thigh. He felt dizzy, confused, but he still was there, not unconscious.

He felt arms around his upper arms, realizing he was being dragged downstairs. _I am a soldier. I have to do something, leave a sign or any damage at all, a _trace,_ for Sherlock, to find me. _He pushed his legs against a step of the stairs, pushing against the man who was dragging him. He turned around, almost falling over, and was punching. He didn't have a target to punch, because his sight was failing him, but he heard a loud noise. _Gun shot._

He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come, but… there was nothing. Everything faded away: noises, feelings and pain.

John was unconscious.

* * *

He woke up in extreme pain. Every muscle, every joint, every _nerve_, was painful. It seemed like there wasn't enough room for his brains in his head. And on top of that, it felt as if his whole body was being squashed by an elephant.

He did not open his eyes, but there was someone talking to him. He didn't recognize the voice, but it was soothing. He'd almost trust the voice, if he wasn't aware that he had been captured.

The relaxing, soothing voice informed John that he was going to talk to Sherlock in an hour. Immediately, John opened his eyes. He had developed a headache simply by opening his eyes too fast, but Sherlock was worth it. He also was told that he could shower and freshen himself up a bit, but he was only given ten minutes for that.

He was not in a hospital, but it looked like it. The room had white-painted walls, the floor had white carpet. There was a window on his left, but John couldn't look outside: white curtains blocked his view. There was a chair in front of John's bed, a white plastic one. A door on his right, with a blacked-out window next to it, like the interrogation rooms that police stations have. His bed was, _surprisingly_, white. It was comfortable, though. Because of his aching body, that was the only thing John cared about now, well, probably priority number two. Number one was Sherlock.

He had an drip hanging standing next to him with the tube hooked in his hand, but he doubt it was proper, healthy, normal fluid.

So, John showered which he found quite difficult because of the drip - knowing that the man with the voice was still there, in the other room, watching him – and the doctor was relieved that it reduced his soreness a bit. He was starting to lie down again, when he noticed that Moriarty had come into the room. He whispered something in the Voice's ear, and the man left.

For the next couple of minutes, Moriarty was – or so it seemed – observing John. John couldn't do more than lay down and shut his eyes, letting the sly eyes glance over his body.

"Surprise!" Moriarty said suddenly when John opened his eyes, in a high-pitch tone. "I know you didn't have any time yesterday to be surprised about my still-alive status, so I'll give you a minute to recover ."

John's face was blank; he only stared at the criminal. He didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction by displaying his ignorance. The psychopath would've probably insulted John – more than he would probably do anyway – about John's stupidity. Missing Sherlock, pain everywhere and coping with being kidnapped, he couldn't presumably deal with Moriarty too.

"Are you not going to ask 'how', John? That's too bad." He walked over the chair and sat on it.

"Then I'll not tell you." The psychopath paused. "I'm such a nice person, you know. Too good for this world, actually. I'm letting you talk to Sherlock, not only because I'm _nice_, but it's also a kind reminder to you and your _lover_ what I am capable of."

He knew it. Even to John it was obvious: it wasn't a nice gesture, 'let me give you permission to talk to your beloved one', but to hurt Sherlock and John. _Obvious,_ Sherlock said in John's mind.

"Ah, I see you're beginning to think clearly again." Moriarty sounded soft, smooth, as if he never said something evil. "Let me tell you, about where you are and such."

John looked hopeful. Of course, he was hoping that he wasn't too far away from London. From _Sherlock._

"You are in Afghanistan, again. Surprising isn't it?" He sounded cheerful. "I'm not telling you where you are precisely, I'm not stupid. Once you are yourself again, which will probably be by noon, you'll be given more instructions to help us attack the ISAF. You're taking care of our wounded men and women."

He didn't really want to fight in the war again. Sherlock gave him their own war: the hunt for the murderers in London.

Then it hit him. _ISAF._ He was working for the Taliban now.

"Everything I tell you, you can tell Sherlock." He almost jumped with excitement. "These little buggers: these _feelings,_" he spat out, "They are the _perfect_ torture for Sherlock. You know that, already, don't you? But you are going to tell him where you are, I know that already." He sighed, and turned his complain-voice on. His excitement, joy and smile were gone. "You are so obvious. Dull. Ordinary. I still don't still understand why Sherlock likes you."

He stretched his legs and sat lazily in his chair, gesturing with his hands like in a normal, civil conversation. "Naturally, there isn't any point in telling Sherlock where you are. We're changing our positions across the country almost every day."

The man known as 'the Voice' came in with a plate of food and some – what looked like – orange juice. Almost immediately, a toast and a fried egg smell surrounded with him, as the man put the tray on John's lap. The doctor inspected the food and the drink, looking for any discolouration or a weird smell.

Moriarty smirked. "Do you really think I want to drug you – I'm doing that already, by the way – after I just told you that I needed you in my army?"

John decided that he was right -_ this was the only time he's going to admit _that _-_ and began eating. It was actually quite bloody good, for someone who was being abducted and being kept by his lovers' archenemy.

Even if it was as good as the forbidden fruits, John couldn't eat much. He was too worried about Sherlock. Did he miss him too? Was he looking for John? Was he already on his way to John? Did he know where he was? Those were the questions that surrounded John and they were almost suffocating him.

John pushed himself to eat, because he was going to talk to Sherlock in an hour. _I'm going to talk to Sherlock. I'll see Sherlock again._

Only one word was in John's mind.

_Sherlock._

* * *

"John." Sherlock's voice had sounded rough; it contained pain, but also some hope.

John was brought into a dark room; there was a table and a chair in the middle. There was a laptop sitting on the table and again, a darkened window. You couldn't see it as well as in his own white room, but it was still there. There was no doubt that Moriarty and some of his minions were standing behind the window, staring at John.

John was so glad to see him, even if his eyes were red. John saw the man that he was in love with, but he wasn't exactly himself anymore. At least, not on the outside. Sherlock had lost some weight; John saw more of his cheekbones. He was wearing his purple shirt again, but the shirt was too big for him now. _He couldn't really have lost this much weight in one day and a couple of hours, could he?_ But then again, he didn't eat much before John was kidnapped.

John swallowed.

Of course, he was so happy to see Sherlock, but he didn't know what to say. Something like 'Hey Sherlock, I'm glad to see you again. I miss you. I hate Moriarty. I'm in Afghanistan again. Moriarty and his men are giving me drugs.' is not going to do very well. Luckily, Sherlock spoke first.

"John! Are you okay? Where are you? Are you hurt?"

The blonde doctor stared at the screen, still absorbing the questions. He could have expected Sherlock to act this way, but surprisingly, he didn't. Maybe he wasn't still recovered from the drugs. He sighed, preparing to answer.

"I'm fine, just a little sore." John nervously glanced at the darkened window. "I'm in Afghanistan," he whispered; he was very well aware that Moriarty could still hear him, but he did it because of the situation he was in.

Sherlock's face was confused, perhaps he didn't expect that. It was predictable to John, though. If Moriarty wanted John for something, this was it. It could be that it was so obvious to Sherlock that hed had written it off the possibilities-list.

John wanted to say that he missed Sherlock, but he didn't want to let Moriarty enjoy that. It would be like a trophy for him.

John saw Sherlock swallowing, this was hard for him. His lover was taken away from him, just to piss him off. After that realization, John felt angry. He wanted to storm out of the room and make Moriarty limp. But he wouldn't do that, because this was his – and maybe his only – chance to speak to Sherlock.

They only stared at each other. They wanted to say so many things, which couldn't be said or it were just too hard for them.

"Are _you _alright?" John heard himself say.

More confusion on Sherlock's face, and John could even see… pity? Yes, it was pity. Oh _god, _Sherlock was probably already thinking that John had gone lunatic. This of course, was perfectly understandable when you were being held by Moriarty. John wanted to smirk and would have, if it hadn't been for this situation they were in.

"Of course I am alright, why wouldn't I be?"

John had understood Sherlock; he wasn't an expert in social skills, but this had hurt… John was Sherlock's best friend and lover, and he was being abducted by Moriarty, his bloody nemesis for god's sake.

"No, John. I… I didn't mean it like _that. _I worry about you, and I don't want to talk about _me_." He paused, looking genuinely sorry. "Are they treating you all right?"

John glanced towards the darkened window, again. He knew Moriarty was behind that glass, and he didn't want to let Moriarty know what they've said in their chat. But, it was inevitable, he'd hear it all anyway.

"Actually, I just woke up about an hour ago. Had a proper shower and food." John cleared his throat, he must tell Sherlock sometime, so he decided he would get it over with, even if he can't say it: Sherlock needed to know where John was. "Sherlock, we're going to attack the ISAF," he said hastily.

He decided to go on, while the door opened. "I don't know when, nor how, or why." John saw two muscular men and one woman in a white coat coming in, clearly with no good intentions. John wanted to retreat to the nearest wall, but the men were already picking John up. "No, no, NO!"

The woman in the white coat stabbed a needle in John's arm. The only reaction John gave was screaming Sherlock's name. He wanted to see his lovers' face again, but he wished he hadn't. The face was full of horror and worry: a face he hadn't seen before.

"**SHERLOCK!**"


	8. Chapter 8

**I would like to tell you, my lovely readers, that I wrote a second story: 'Black roses'. If you've loved chapter 4 (that one looked like a casefic), I can recommend you 'Black roses'. So it's a BBC's Sherlock casefic. I think it's worth checking it out. I can ramble for a long, long time, so I'll stop now.**

**Thanks to my lovely beta jack63kids! She makes the story better. Also, I want to thank everyone who had favorited/followed/reviewed the story and/or PM'd me. Thanks for hanging in there!**

* * *

"What the hell? I thought you were letting me talk to Sherlock! You said I could say anything to Sherlock, even everything you told me. You're not making any sense at all!" John said. He was furious: he was angry at everything. He finally could see Sherlock again and Moriarty didn't have the respect to let them talk! Yes, they did talk, but it was only briefly.

When he woke up, he was in his white room again. His head was pounding, again, but he couldn't give any attention to that, because Moriarty just had [/had just] entered John's room.

"Now, let's be honest, when do I make sense?" Moriarty smirked.

"No, I'm sorry. Can I rephrase that?" The blonde doctor had asked annoyed, but still very calm. "You never making any sense. You're always completely logical. And that, my dear abductor, is the truth. I don't know you as well as I do Sherlock, but I know you're always rational."

"Did you forget our little pool scene, Johnny-boy?" John wasn't aware that someone could say something so venomously. "I confessed I was changeable then, how could you forget that?"

"Can I ask you a question?" The doctor said, completely changing the subject. He saw that Moriarty was surprised by this last question of John's request. He found it almost amusing how he could surprise the evil mastermind – sarcasm included, well he was in fact an evil criminal mastermind, but it sounded so childish – even when he was the one to kidnap John. "How can you expect Sherlock to like you if you keep trying to hurt people he cares about?"

"Oh, John," Moriarty laughed whole heartedly, "you are such a nice pet. Even though I can't entirely understand why Sherlock likes you, I can understand about him finding you amusing. I would keep you too, if I was him." He paused and shrugged, as if he was saying the most general thing a person could say.

"He already likes me. I give him a game, a very good one if I'd say so myself. He likes games, therefore he likes me. Can't you see, John?" His venomous tone was turned 'on', again, "you're nothing to him."  
Yesterday 2:08AM

* * *

**Let's travel in time!**

* * *

"**SHERLOCK!**"

The words had echoed in Sherlock's mind, for almost a week now. Yes, it had been a week since the Skype conversation between him and John.

Mycroft had put his best people onto analysing the conversation: they weren't there at 221B while Sherlock and John talked, sure, but that wasn't going to stop Mycroft's men. They were better than that. They didn't need a live chat: amateurs did. But to get to the point: nobody had figured out where the conversation at John's end exactly took place. They didn't know how it was that they couldn't trace the conversation; it was a mystery that such a well used application as Skype could hide one conversation so completely. Even an interrogation between Mycroft and the founders of the app didn't clear up anything. Not even one, simple thing.

The detective couldn't blame Mycroft's men, of course. He wanted to, but he couldn't. The conversation was recorded, but there was nothing to look over. John had given information where they were and what they would do, so they wouldn't have needed to figure that out by secret clues in the doctor's sentences. They couldn't see anything either. There were no sounds but John's voice, no windows: it was all black. Except for John's face obviously, it which was lit by the light of the laptop.

Sherlock had noticed that John was frequently looking towards his left, but he wasn't reading something. Was Moriarty standing in the same room John was in? No, that seemed unlikely. Moriarty would definitely be as near as possible, but it wasn't rational that Moriarty was in the same room. That would frighten John, and he wouldn't say such things as he have said the things that he did say.

The second thing what that Sherlock had noticed was that John was badly bruised around his face, probably been hit by Moriarty's men while they were trying to kidnap him. Luckily, that was the only thing John seemed to have, other than his drip standing next to him. The drip fluid was just a drug to sedate John, obviously, but enough to keep him moving and talking.

The things John said were peculiar too: why did Moriarty inform the doctor of such things? The only explanation the detective had could think of was to hurt him and through his lover. It seemed unlikely, but then again, it was typical for of Moriarty. Deep down Sherlock knew it was true: he just didn't want to believe it. Moriarty was smart enough to give Sherlock such information, and to disappear so that the detective couldn't find them.

Yes, they would change locations often, the tall man was certain about that. Moriarty wasn't stupid, Sherlock knew that. And Moriarty, as unfortunate as that was, knew it too. Moriarty was the only one that who could equal Sherlock's intelligence. The detective loved a game, yes, especially the ones Moriarty constructed, but now that John's life was on the line he didn't want to play anymore.

Sherlock was in Pakistan now. Yes, Pakistan, not in Afghanistan. John told Sherlock that they would attack the ISAF. Sherlock's brother informed him that the ISAF headquarters were nearby Quetta, Pakistan. Immediately after his cup of tea, he forced Mycroft to get him a plane ticket towards Quetta's international airport. The older brother refused at first, but when he had understood how important it was to Sherlock, he agreed.

Sherlock couldn't buy much food or any other resources to survive, but that was okay since he didn't need much of it anyway. Since John was gone, he hadn't eaten very often. Only a biscuit once a day was enough to keep him going, he could run for miles and he wouldn't be exhausted. He drank more frequently though, because of the heat and he knew John would have wanted that. Sherlock smiled. Good old doctor. Even in their conversation, John had asked how his lover was doing. John was the one who was kidnapped by Sherlock's archenemy, been drugged and had bruises everywhere. And yet, John had asked how he was doing.

This made Sherlock more furious and determined to catch Moriarty and kill him. Yes, he would certainly kill him if he had the chance. After what he had done to John and him, he deserved it. It was a mystery how Moriarty survived at the rooftop of St. Bart's, but he blamed Moriarty for not understanding. His mind was after all focused on how bad John would be hurt and how he would miss him.

But what had Sherlock done in the previous week when he had been in Pakistan? Well, he informed the ISAF about his the situation he was in. Sherlock knew the ISAF couldn't do anything about that, but they said they would be extra careful. Honestly, Sherlock didn't know what to do anymore. He knew John was in Afghanistan – if he could trust Moriarty in what he had said to John – but he couldn't just search the whole country to find one man? Don't get him wrong: Sherlock wanted to do everything for John, he would literally walk through hell to save his best friend – if he wasn't doing that already - but the odds were low to find on finding John in Afghanistan. Plus, Moriarty would change their positions almost every day.

Sherlock sighed: he had a feeling this wouldn't end soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Oh my god, I am so, so sorry I let you wait this long. I thought I already posted this chapter. Well, the positive side of that is that chapter 10 will be soon online. Thanks for the waiting guys, and again: my sincere apologies for misunderstanding.**

**Also, I am surprised I you guys are still reading this story. I just updated all chapters with the help from my awesome beta 'jack63kids'and I literary slapped myself for using dumb mistakes such as 'putted'. Oh my god, that really was horrible. **

**From now on, that won't happen again because Jack would read and improve the story first, and after that I'll post the chapter. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**One day after the conversation:**

John was pushed out of the car, just after the black silk around his eyes was unfolded.

"Have fun," he heard someone say and the person laughed.

He heard something thrown towards him. It seemed heavy. John's eyes needed to adjust for a couple of minutes since he hadn't had the possibility of seeing through his eyes for an hour. He heard a car driving off.

When he could finally see, the doctor saw that the thrown object was actually a First Aid-kit. He felt a hand on his arm dragging him to his right, where trees and bushes were the only cover.

"Come on, we need to get out of here!" The man who said this seemed very young. Twenty, if his age wasn't even lower.

John grabbed the kit. If he was going to do this, he would do it right. He would save the men and women, even if they were Moriarty's minions. We ran towards the vegetation and ducked when we reached them.

"It should start pretty soon," the young man said.

He wanted to ask "It?", but he couldn't because at that exact moment we heard gunfire. Very loud gunfire. The sound was only a couple of hundred meters away, John thought as he used his previous experience. Although, John thought that you didn't have to have experienced war to decide that.

As the two men heard it, John jumped to the ground immediately, grabbing the upper arm of the man in process. Even if it is a couple of hundred meters away, it doesn't mean you are safe.

"And what's your name?" John asked. If he was to be working with this man, he should at least know his name.

"Hugh," the man said, while he tried to observe John, "yours?"

"John," he answered as he did the same, he could see him properly now. Hugh had black hair with dark brown eyes and skin that was tanned. "You're a doctor too?"

"Yes, how did you know that?"

"Well, we were in the same car. If you were a soldier, you would've come most likely come with the others." John wondered if Sherlock would be proud of him because of that deduction.

Hugh laughed, but you couldn't hear his voice because there was a grenade dropped close by. After they recovered from the noise, the two doctors ran towards the location of the explosion. John found it was way too quiet – the gunfire had stopped – but then he remembered it was always like this after a grenade.

Hugh ran towards their left, John saw a couple of seconds later why. There were a some bodies lying on the ground. John followed him.

The bodies turned out to be men. Three men, to be exact. One was already dead – fatal blow to the head, John immediately saw – the next had a tree branch through his leg and the last was leaning on a tree near them, with a copious amount of blood dripping out of his chest. His shirt was so red, John couldn't determine where it was coming from.

Hugh took the screaming man with the tree branch through his calf, since he was the closest. The blonde doctor picked the other one that was alive, of course. The doctor took off the man's shirt, using it to wipe off the blood. When he saw the origin was from the upper left area, he had little hope. John put pressure on the wound.

"Really? One kit? That is ludicrous!" John heard Hugh yelling angrily. The blonde had to agree with Hugh. But even if they had two First Aid-kits, they still didn't know where they should treat the injured men. It wasn't like they had a base or somewhere to treat them. At least, not that John had been informed of.

Then, he heard multiple gunshots behind him. Naturally, John took cover behind the tree his patient was leaning on. He didn't look around until he felt safe, which was ridiculous of course: why would you ever feel safe when you're in a country like this? He looked behind the tree and found that Hugh had a gunshot wound through his skull. John was relieved the black-haired man hadn't felt any pain: he didn't even have the time to scream. He checked the other two – two minutes ago still alive – men. But no, they were gone, too.

John sighed. Even though Mycroft said that John missed the war – at that time it was had been true. But now, he absolutely didn't miss it, not since he had Sherlock in his life.

* * *

**One week after the conversation:**

He had had a week in at war, but also a week of not speaking to Moriarty. John didn't know if he should be happy or concerned about that.

John had to work in the clinic today that day. He was sure he was in Afghanistan now, because he had seen it everywhere: on the blankets, on the beds itself, on the walls and even on the dark-green scrubs you had to wear as a doctor or a nurse.

John had a few interesting patients the day he worked here there. It was not nice of course, but the patients were something he kept busy but treating patients gave him something to keep him busy. The patients all had some debts – didn't have to be financial ones – and that Moriarty could fix for them. They weren't told what they would be doing: only that they would be out of the country for six months and that they must follow all commands. They all had regretted the choice afterwards.

Some of those weren't even capable of fighting in the war: some had limps or some simply couldn't handle the stress and discipline. Those people had to do most of the bombing: it didn't matter if they must had to throw the grenades or just do suicide attacks.

One woman – her name was Dianne – had touched John very deeply. She said she was doing this for her son, because he had a kid. He had debts, not financial but he had owed Moriarty in some way. He was just married and his wife was pregnant when Moriarty decided to contact him. Dianne wouldn't let her son go away, so instead she went. He admired her for her strength and power.

Moriarty always seemed to find the worst possible times to ruin people's life. That was typical, he thought. Not surprising at all.

Then there was Christopher. He was a young bloke: twenty-five years old. His eyes were green and his hair golden brown. He had a limp – just like John used to have – but even people with emotional or physical traumas/problems had to fight. Even if they were shot: it didn't matter. If they were capable of walking, they were forced to fight.

Christopher had suffered all his life with bad luck. He said his parents were murdered, they had debts, and he had to pay. But, two years ago he had lost all his money because some con-artist stole everything he had. So, this was the only way to do it he could survive financially. Now he got shot in the upper shoulder, not very concerning, but he still needed care.

He liked Chris: he was nice and funny. Don't misunderstand John's intentions: Christopher was handsome and nice, but John wouldn't fall in love for with anyone else since he had met Sherlock. Sherlock was his life now, only he didn't see him all the time like he used to. Anyway, Christopher distracted John from his dark thoughts. He made him feel like he wasn't the only one that who was miserable and depressed. Of course not, John thought to himself. _Look around, you're absolutely not the worse one of all_. Actually, John seemed one of the most fortunate ones.

* * *

**One month after the conversation:**

"GET DOWN!" Christopher commanded John.

John lied immediately down, lay down immediately on the ground. As Chris noticed John was making movements towards the ground out of the line of fire, he began shooting.

Chris and John were standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by at least twenty soldiers that belonged to their side. They were in an attack of the U.S. military: John noticed the American flag on their uniform.

There were at least twenty of their men dead: they were beginning to be the minority of the attackers. As John realized that, he decided he would choose the perfect opportunity to retreat further through the vegetation with Christopher. John wasn't a man who would easily give up on a fight, but he knew deep down they'd both get killed if they continued.

John wanted to go to the other side of the road, where his patients were, but he couldn't because he would get most likely get shot, if not killed. Christopher was on this side, too.

During the last three weeks, they had been on all their missions together. John realized they were becoming good friends, if they weren't already. John had told Chris about why he was here there, and Chris completely understood. He tried to cheer the blonde up most of the time, when they weren't being attacked.

Chris recovered quickly from his shoulder injury and had to work in the field again, without physiotherapy. John had thought that Chris wouldn't shoot half as well as he did before – Christopher told him about his magnificent skills – but he proved him wrong. Now, he had hit most of the U.S. military in this attack. Until he got shot. The groin, this time.

"CHRIS!" The doctor shouted his name, quickly taking his arm and pulling him to the ground, into the cover of the bush he was sitting behind. The blonde saw blood almost spraying out of his body, knowing an artery was hit. That was not good, John decided, not good at all. The doctor applied pressure to the wound immediately.

"Chris, if we want us both alive to live, we have to get out of this, now," John whispered, "I know you are in a lot of pain, but you have to work with me."

He simply nodded. John took that as a sign that he could go, but he tried to be as careful as possible. Walking and applying pressure at the same time is a lot harder than you would think, John thought. He walked with John, limping with both legs – one with the actual limp and the other with a bullet wound – and bent down his back so he stayed low. John put his arm around him so he could lean on him and couched down in the same way he did.

They walked for about five minutes – it seemed like five hours for them – when they spotted an open space between the vegetation. It wasn't very big, at least 3 by 2 meters, so John was sure he could take a proper look at Christopher without being disturbed or injured. There were a lot of these gaps in vegetation, actually, now that John saw more of them. John didn't think much of it the cover they offered and continued walking.

John wanted to glance at Chris, but the older man's eyes seemed broken when he saw Chris' face: he couldn't get his eyes of it. The young man's face was pale, he had trouble breathing and he had a weak pulse when the doctor checked. They were only a couple of steps away from the empty space.

"It's not good, is it?" Chris mumbled.

John swallowed: he knew he had to tell the truth.

"No, I'm sorry, Chris," John said, steadier than he'd expected, "we're almost at an open spot: I prefer to take a good look at you there."

John took two more steps as he lay Christopher down, still with his hand on the wound. Then, both their hearts and breathing seemed to stop as they heard a sound.

It wasn't just branches breaking, or an explosion somewhere. No, it was more ominous than that. The sound seemed enough to stop your heart: it was a 'click'.

"Oh shit," John cursed, not as steady as he had been minutes before, "_Minefield._"


	10. Chapter 10

**I'm so sorry about the delay! Especially with the cliffhanger.. Gah! Please don't kill me! I don't know how it keeps happening, it just.. does. I'll make it up to you; two chapters today. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_"Oh shit," John cursed, "Minefield."_

Silence followed.

John noticed the birds, who sang happily in the trees even though there was a war going on. The clouds were racing by. Despite the disastrous situation and stress the soldiers were in, the clouds were white and the sky was blue. John expected them to be dark grey and that it would rain, but that didn't happen. He grew progressively annoyed by that silly fact, he later found it ridiculous that he thought that at all.

There was no way they would be coming out of this alive, John realized. He also realized that he was putting way more pressure on Chris' wound than was necessary. He loosen it up a bit, not too much though. John heard something coming from Chris' mouth but he was still too dazed to actually focus on it. Christopher's mouth was moving fast now, so the doctor shook his head.

"John," Christopher's voice was rough and weak, "John!" He tried to shake the doctor, but his arms were too heavy. "I need you to go, now."

"What?" John's eyes were sharp. "I won't leave you, you know that, don't be so stupid," John didn't meant to be harsh, but there was no way in hell he would leave Chris. Chris was his companion, his rock, his _friend, _for the last month and few days. And you didn't leave a friend behind, certainly not in a battlefield when he's been shot.

"John," Chris swallowed and blinked his eyes for longer than normal standards. "Don't argue with me. I'm dying and you know it. You have a life back in England, I haven't. John," a long dramatic pause followed, "Will you _please_ do this for me?"

John was surprised that the bleeding man could talk for so long. His voice was rough, weak and constantly breaking, but he never stopped. Nevertheless, he never saw leaving Chris as an option. The doctor knew Chris hadn't very much time left, and they were nowhere near a hospital or something of the sorts. He left his First-Aid kit back in the battlefield too, since he couldn't grab that to take with him.

"No," the doctor said stubbornly as he took of his army jacket and wrapped it around the bullet wound, "I wouldn't leave a friend."

"John! I'm dying and you know it too!" Chris was clearly exhausted after that outburst, "Now save your arse by walking away," he said wearily.

"But, we're in the middle of nowhere! If I walk away, there's still a high chance I die too," John exclaimed.

"But you have a _chance._"

"Yes, but is it better to leave you here and die and I have a slight chance of surviving, then both die at the same time?" John swallowed. Chris wanted to sit, but failed and groaned from the pain.

He waited until he was recovered a bit. "Yes," Chris decided.

John looked away from his pale friend who was growing weaker by the second, and knew it was true. He just didn't want to give up yet.

"You are a doctor, you've fought in the army, your boyfriend is a genius," Chris whispered, "the world can't miss you, John."

_Sherlock._ As strange as it sounds, the doctor hadn't thought about him since Chris was wounded. Sure, they had gone on a mission this morning and got attacked, but John thought of him every day. John couldn't lose him, and he was pretty sure the detective didn't want to lose John either. But Sherlock _would,_ if John didn't leave. The truth was Chris would be dead in the next five minutes, he knew that, and there was no chance at all he could survive. Chris would die and John could live, only if he'd just walk away. The decision had to be made.

Chris' eyes closed, and John knew he'd soon die. John swallowed at that harsh thought. Their hands clasped, John bent forwards and kissed Chris temple. The doctor hugged his dying friend.

"I won't forget you," John whispered after he broke the hug. Chris nodded in response, his eyes still closed. The blonde doctor stood up and walked away, careful to not stand on any more shells buried in the ground. John felt warm water running over his cheeks.

Then, things slowed to a crawl. John didn't know if Chris knew he was about to die or that he'd just lost track of the time, but the doctor knew Chris triggered the bomb way too early. He was only about a hundred meters away when the bomb went off. There were more gaps in the terrain, so that meant more bombs. Unfortunately, these were triggered by the first explosion.

John heard a loud bang, with his back towards the explosion, and after that he couldn't hear at all: only pitched ringing in his ears. If it was night time, the blonde man was certain he could see the normal colors of the trees, bushes and such other things. Now it was just a loud explosion.

The bomb closest to him was only about thirty to forty meters away. That one was triggered as well and John was thrown forwards by the time the force of the explosion reached him. John tried to grab a tree or something else, he neither failed nor did he succeed. He managed to get a hold of a branch, but it only made John roll over as he was flying in the air and now faced the sky. It was made out dark clouds this time, John was surprised the air could darken so quickly. But then again, it happened in London all the time.

He wondered if he would be able to come back to London when this all was over, not even certain he would survive predicament he was in. The situation which caused him to miss Sherlock a whole, horrible month. It didn't sound much: a month, but if you were kept by Moriarty in a bad environment, a month sounded like a whole lifetime. The situation had also caused a friend of his to die, not only his friend but many others. This friend, Christopher, was someone he knew intimately even if he knew him for about three weeks. The last four weeks were miserable, but Christopher had brighten the last three up a bit. John was very grateful for that.

John admired Christopher for his braveness: he gave up his life to give his friend a chance to survive. No, they were both not certain he _would_ survive, but the chance, only a _slight_ chance, gave Christopher enough hope to end his life. Sure, his life was already coming to an end because of his wound, but if they hadn't stepped on a booby trap John was sure he could keep Chris alive for a longer time.

John's flying through the air was beginning to end as John noticed small things such as how beautifully the birds opened and closed their wings, how the wind let the leaves from the trees wave and how the clouds were light and at the same time very dark. He saw how a shadow from a gigantic rock fell over him. The doctor felt his head bump into something very hard and everything turned black.

* * *

His brother was his access to information, lots and lots of information. Unfortunately, that meant he had to talk to him. And that itself wasn't so horrible, no, he was used to that because most people he talked to were idiots. Mycroft was a idiot in his very own way; he could be so annoying all the time. The older brother was very careful with his sources who were giving him his data. Especially where his brother was concerned.

Other men or women didn't know what to do with the information. At least, ordinary people didn't. Villains, however, did. Mycroft treated Sherlock like one and that infuriated the detective. Sure, he wasn't a friend of the government but not a villain for God's sake! It wasn't Sherlock's fault that he was treated this way: as Sherlock worked more and more for the police, not officially but still, Mycroft progressively gave him less information.

Sherlock didn't know, nor could he know, if it was to protect him or to challenge his intelligence: but their relationship grew worse and worse. Their relationship was never well maintained, but eventually Sherlock saw Mycroft as his archenemy. The detective was highly convinced Mycroft saw him that way too. And that drove him mad. They saw each other that way, but in reality they weren't enemies.

Nevertheless, Sherlock wouldn't be the one to apologize; he was too stubborn and his pride was on the line. In that way, the brothers were just like each other.

This is the reason why Sherlock is angry that he was moved to Afghanistan; Mycroft pretended to let Sherlock help. Sherlock had higher expectations from his brother; it was obvious Sherlock knew about what Mycroft was doing. It was almost disappointing.

He knew John was in the same country as he was in currently, at least; there was no reason not to believe that unless Moriarty was lying. However, that was unlikely. Moriarty wanted to torture Sherlock in an emotional way and he had succeeded. Sherlock was a mess, he knew that. Of course; he wouldn't admit that if someone accused him of being a mess.

In the last month Sherlock had done some work for the army. He didn't want to, but if that was what it took to keep track of the current situation in Afghanistan and the Taliban's newest activities he knew John was part of, he'd do that. The detective wanted to come with the soldiers in the most important missions, but he was not allowed to.

In the rest of the time Sherlock had - he rarely slept - he'd solved some cases Lestrade had sent him via email, Mycroft sent him his laptop after he moved into his little, white apartment in Afghanistan. Naturally, it was sent with a tracking devise but Sherlock got rid of it. It wasn't busy in London, Sherlock could deduce that from the cases, or Lestrade just gave him the easy ones. However the grey-haired man hated cases that were still open after a long time.

He now sat on his balcony, smoking. Yes, he was smoking again. Otherwise he couldn't handle the stress of the situation, and even with the nicotine in him it was hard to concentrate on something other than John's missing presence.

Sherlock noticed a black car stopping in front of his temporary house - he would never say 'home', because John was where home was - and he threw his cigarette on the balcony. He didn't have to check; he knew who was coming out of that car. So Sherlock went inside and sat on a chair that Mycroft had bought him.

"Don't you lock your door? It's a dangerous world out there," the man asked.

"Did you put sunscreen on? It would be dreadful if you burned your precious head," the detective replied mockingly. The man raised his chin in response. "We don't want to waste our time, Mycroft. Do say what you've come here to say,"

"It's about John," Mycroft sat on the other seat. Sherlock didn't opened his mouth but his face wasn't blank anymore: you could see the emotions raze through him. Hope, anger, happiness, concern, it was all there. "We have found him."

"And?" Sherlock asked in a curious tone, after he couldn't wait for any longer because Mycroft had paused for a very long time. Mycroft's voice was pitiful, the younger brother knew the good news was over now: it was now time for the bad news.

"American soldiers have found him, after a series of explosions; most likely land-mines. John laid unconscious on the ground, against a rock," Mycroft said after putting his face on the option 'blank'. Sherlock swallowed, preparing for the worst, "He is lying in a hospital in Kabul, one of the best hospitals in the country. The doctors are saying he's lucky to be alive and are expecting brain injury," Mycroft said, subtle as ever.

"Let's go, then," Sherlock said, not wasting any time when it was extremely valuable. Because it is John, who they were talking about.


	11. Chapter 11

**I want to give my thanks to my wonderful beta 'jack63kids', who is still reading and editing my chapters. ****Also, I would like to thank Iriomote Yamaneko Nokomis (Thank you for your many reviews, they are highly appreciated!), Anastasia Dove (Thanks for the reviews and support!), Boxerbee (Yes, yes I do. Just kidding, I didn't want it to be cheesy like in the leg (that happened with John), or somewhere immediately fatal like the the chest or the head. And in the groin are a lot of veins :D), Sherlocked Girl On Fire (Thanks for the support!) and Zacha (Thanks for the support, love that you actually read it).**

**I have to say, I'm not exactly happy about this chapter; I keep editing things. I hope you like it. **

**Reviews are highly appreciated!**

**EDIT: November first; changed John's sentence. People who are reading this chapter for the first time after November the first, can ignore this edit. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John wakes up, comfortably. He knew he was lying on a bed, his head on a pillow. John's arms were lying beside him. It was after this he realized he was a little bit fuzzy in his head; he could not think straight. John didn't want to open his eyes; he was afraid what he might see. He could hear some sort of beeping and people talking, but the words didn't make sense and they weren't being processed in John's fuzzy head. He tried to remember what had happened.

He could recall some sort of fight, oh yes; Afghanistan. John and his army comrades were under attack; he knew they were in a car before, driving, but then they got attacked and there were gunshots everywhere. They quickly had abandoned the car and John was running towards the wounded soldiers. He was busy; trying to control the bullet wounds, when he felt a sharp pain in his upper leg. He realized he had been shot.

Immediately, John's hand felt down his leg, trying to find any sort of bandages or something else that would give away a leg wound. But, nothing was found. John opened his eyes to look at his leg because he knew the wound was real, it should be there but it wasn't. It simply wasn't there.

After the exertion, just because he had to sit a little straighter, he was exhausted. Questions filled John's mind, but he hadn't had the energy to answer them. He couldn't possibly do it either, even if his mind wasn't fuzzy.

_How long was I asleep_?

_How did the bullet-wound heal so quickly?_

_Why am I this exhausted? _

He wanted answers, though.

His eyes were darting around the room now. He saw a completely white room; bed sheets, walls, floors (well they were more greyish), chairs. All this white frightened the soldier but he didn't know why. There was a window behind him; he didn't look around but the light made shadows which pointed towards the glass door, in front of him. When he was able to open his eyes there were occasionally men and women - who mostly had looked as they were from Afghanistan by origin, but white people weren't rare either - walking by, some of them in long white coats. John felt relieved but he did not know why.

Then he noticed a man leaning forward in the white chair, staring at him. He probably had seen him moments ago, but didn't give any attention to it. There was something strange about this man that he couldn't work out. He seemed tired, his eyes were red, his dark-brown, curly hair was sticking out to every direction you could possibly think of and his cheekbones were almost sticking out of his face; he was fairly thin. John noticed the man's mouth moving. The soldier stared at it, not processing the words. What he heard just didn't make any sense. The man stood up, lifting John's chin with his hand and looked with concern into John's eyes.

The soldier did not know this man, had not seen him before in his life but he let him touch him anyway. John found it quite comforting, he blamed his fuzzy head for that fact. The man said something, it seemed like he yelled but John didn't understand him. A few seconds later, two men came into the room through the glass door. One man was wearing a black suit, had short brown hair and was kind of chubby. The other man was wearing a long white coat, so John assumed he was a doctor and he could trust him.

The doctor checked his eyes; observed his pupils for normal dilation - John was a doctor; he knew precisely what the man in the white coat was doing, even with his fuzzy head - and John saw his mouth moving. The soldier looked at the mouth, still wondering why he couldn't understand everything that both men had said. The doctor had moved his mouth a couple of times, John knew he was saying something, but he simply couldn't understand him. The man in the black suit and the man who had been there when John had woken, were arguing. He could see that by their body language and how they opened their mouths.

John was wondering if this was some elaborate deception but they didn't seem to be doing that. Plus, it would be ridiculous. He had been shot in his bloody leg and why would the other soldiers, or whoever they were, have had the _nerve_ to trick him? John was winding himself up, and he knew it, but he wanted an explanation for all these weird things happening around him, in probably no more than ten minutes.

"Could you please speak a bloody understandable language for God's sake?!" John said frustratedly, his voice broken, louder than he'd wanted to speak but he guessed they deserved it. How the hell could you fool someone who had just been shot?!

All the three men gave him a curious and concerned look. The man with the cheekbones clenched his hand around John's, John shot him a confused look. Although he knew he had liked the comfort of the man's hand under his chin just moments ago, he found it weird that the man was holding hands with him. It seemed like a big step. The said man moved his mouth, but John wasn't sure he said something because it was so brief and it seemed more like sighing.

John saw the man in the suit and the doctor talking to each other and then they both left the room. A few moments later, a woman - who seemed like a nurse - changed John's drip - John hadn't even noticed he had a drip standing next to him and left the room. The soldier felt drowsy and fell asleep, still holding the man's hand.

* * *

John was asleep for the second time now. Hopefully, this time it won't last more than thirty hours. Sherlock was with John for about twenty-six of them. The first hours he didn't dare to look away but after Mycroft had given him the files about John's missing he had to. The pictures on top showed how John was found. John was laying on his side, eyes opened, his head - covered in blood - was lying against a rock, his hands were bloody too but there was no way that John could put his hands by his head before he passed out. That meant that the blood was older than the head wound.

When Sherlock arrived, John had been in surgery. It took three hours and in the mean time Sherlock was restless. He couldn't sleep, eat, drink or do anything else except for thinking and worrying about John. Because this man, who had been his best friend and more, was captured because of Sherlock. If Sherlock had dealt with Moriarty a long time ago, this wouldn't have happened.

If you had asked Sherlock yesterday what he thought was the worst about John's capturing, the answer would be that he had to miss John. His presence had not been there, and that was what had troubled him. _Where is John? Would he be okay? Could Sherlock see John again? Did John miss him too?_ That sort of questions had filled Sherlock's mind. But now, Sherlock isn't so sure anymore.

When Sherlock and John had first locked eyes, Sherlock hadn't seen any recognition in John's eyes. When John didn't respond to his callings, Sherlock had looked into John's eyes and noticed that his pupils were dilated differently. John had stared confused at Sherlock. The detective knew there was something wrong, and it wasn't a small thing. He had called for Mycroft and the doctor, and they had entered the room almost immediately.

Dr. Hemler, the best doctor in the hospital - Mycroft had taken care of that, had immediately checked John's eyes with a light as Sherlock stepped away from John.

"I'm afraid he has indeed brain damage as we expected. How severe, we don't know yet," Dr. Hemler had informed in a German accent. "We have to do some tests to know, but I must warn you; don't get your hopes up. It's a usually a very bad sign if the pupils aren't equally dilated."

"Is Dr. Watson able to be transported?" Mycroft had asked. Sherlock had been irritated by his tone; it was almost bored. Like he didn't care.

"He is stable, so I would say yes. He has to be in the present of a medic, though."

"I will ensure that then."

"Please do," Sherlock finally snapped; he couldn't deal with Mycroft now, he wanted him to leave. He wanted to be alone with John. Mycroft had sent him a stern glare and Sherlock wanted to scold at Mycroft again but John suddenly had interrupted with a rasped voice.

"Could evildoers dart a green flashlight to tornado's?!" John had asked.

Sherlock didn't understand; John was putting random words together in a sentence. Why would he do that? It had to be something neurological; it was the only theory left. Sherlock probably had deleted it in the past, had sorted it as 'irrelevant'. The detective regretted it now. He took John's hand and held it as he sat down.

"Dr. Watson will be checked in the next hospital. Now, the most important thing now for Dr. Watson is to sleep. I suggest you'll do that too, sir," the doctor had said as he and Sherlock's brother left the room.

A few minutes later, a nurse had entered the room, changed John's drip and left again. John's eyes were drooping and a few moments later he fell asleep, still holding hands with Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled by realizing he had John again. Maybe it wasn't an ideal situation, but he would do everything to cure John's yet unknown symptoms. They didn't know what was exactly wrong with him yet, but they will find out. John is safe now, and that's what mattered to Sherlock. The detective closed his eyes and tried to sleep, knowing he had to get every bit of rest for the future: he's going to need it.


	12. Chapter 12

**I'm not a doctor (obviously) so I can be wrong about the diagnoses. If I get anything wrong, please say so and I'll adjust my mistakes because I get my information of websites.**

**I have three things to apologize for:**

**First, I changed the sentence John said in the last chapter. It's a minor change in the sentence, but a massive one for the story, so if you'd all be so kind to reread the question John had asked in Sherlock's POV, you'd all be able to understand the story further. Otherwise, my diagnosis for John wasn't plausible. I am sorry about the mistake, I know it's a huge one and it's stupid of me. It's just stupid. I've read the information on Wikipedia and other sites wrongly and didn't check it twice. God, I'm so sorry. **

**Second, I'm SO SO SO SO sorry about putting this chapter on the web. I said I would put this chapter on Saturday, but I'm pretty sure I've cought the Writersblock-disease.**

**Third, I ****realized I'd let John lose consciousness way too much. The last one was planned though, the others were just coincidences. There will be no others. I'm sorry readers, and I'm sorry John!**

**Thanks to my lovely beta 'jack63kids' as always!**

**Okay, I'm writing way too much right now, but I'll make it up to you. I just wanted to apologize for my stupid mistakes and the inconvenience. It won't happen again - I hope!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The tall man with the cheekbones sat next to John again. When John had woken up, he found the Man staring at him. He felt the Man's gaze actually, when he was asleep. It was the reason - second only to the main reason which was the pain in his leg - he had woken up.

John's mind was still fuzzy and his thinking hazy but he could determine that it was from the painkillers; it was necessary if you were shot in the leg, so he didn't complain about it. He knew that doctors could be difficult patients and he was one of them. After all, he was beginning to hate his fuzzy mind because he can't think clearly or rationally. Not that he would need that since he is in a hospital, but still.

Yes, he was in _a_ hospital. Not in the one he had first woken up in. The room was different. Said room which he lay in was also white. This one was more open, though. There were more windows, however they were all closed and the blinds were shut. The bed John lay in, was bigger. Just a bit, but John could feel it. The mattress was softer too. There was a glass door in the corner, next to a window as big as the door. The Man sat in a chair on John's right, next to a drip which was with a needle inserted in John's hand.

John wondered where he was.

* * *

A couple of hours after John - and Sherlock - had been transmitted from Afghanistan to London, John was fast asleep. He still hadn't woken up, not even in the helicopter.

Naturally, Mycroft had to show off and had used the helicopter to transfer the consulting detective and the army doctor. Not that Sherlock complained; he wanted to of course, but Mycroft had the power to easily and quickly transfer the couple. Mycroft hadn't gone with them in the helicopter flight.

_Luckily,_ Sherlock thought, _otherwise the helicopter would have crashed._

No, Mycroft wished to get his lazy arse in a seat with enough space to actually get him comfortable.

_Be kind,_ John's voice said in Sherlock's mind, _he's doing it for you and for me, he's actually helping us. _

He'd hated the words that came out of John's imaginary mouth, but he loved his voice. So instead of listening to what was being said, he listened to the voice. The voice was kind, soft and a small reminder of how much Sherlock had missed him.

Sherlock sat in a chair in the room John was laying in. The white, resentful chamber his wounded best friend lay in was somewhere in St. Bart's. Sherlock had insisted on the hospital, otherwise he'd not let John get into the helicopter. It was obvious that he and Mycroft both knew that that wouldn't happen, since Sherlock wouldn't leave John alone.

He'd only do that if he had to go to the bathroom, and that wouldn't be likely since he wouldn't drink or eat. No, he didn't think his needs were important right now. John's were, especially his medical needs.

Sherlock and - the detective hated it to admit it - Mycroft were making sure those needs would be fulfilled, but the only thing Sherlock could do was being present. He could be stubborn about the medications or could give his opinions about the doctors and nurses, but that wouldn't change anything. Sherlock was almost powerless, and he hated it.

Sherlock was torn from his thoughts when John opened his eyes. His eyes were glassy as they were the last time and they were looking at everything in the room; examining but not focusing.

Sherlock had so many questions and so much to say, but he knew it was pointless; the German Dr. Hemler had said it was aphasia - Hemler explained what it was, but they had to do some tests to confirm it and which kind it could be. The doctor also said that John would benefit from sessions with a speech therapist and they would have to start soon as possible.

The detective had found that ludicrous; he could cure John of his aphasia but knew he wasn't the one meant for that job. John had a slightly better chance to heal if treated by a man or woman who was educated for the process. Sherlock would be the one who would approve and choose the therapist, obviously.

Sherlock pressed the emergency button because he did not want to let go of John's hand - his warmth. He'd been told to get the doctor personally if John would wake up, but he was simply too stubborn for that.

After a few moments two nurses entered the room - they had obviously been running towards the room the patient lay in. Sherlock gave them an innocent smile as he saw the faces of the nurses; they were beginning to get red with anger.

"He's awake," Sherlock said as he continued his smile.

"Yes, we can see that," the blonde nurse said - clearly annoyed. "You know, you can simply get up and get us, or the doctor himself. It's not that hard."

Sherlock shrugged in response and turned his apologetic smile into a smug one.

"Well, I shall get the doctor then," the other nurse said softly and they both left the room.

Sherlock let his smile fall and he looked back to John, only to find him staring at the detective. John's eyes were focusing now, on Sherlock. They glanced at his cheekbones, eyes, eyebrows, ears, hair, jaw and the other features on the face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow despite noticing a warm glow starting in his stomach. John was injured and yet, here he was showing interest in Sherlock like he always did; checking if he was okay.

"Good evening," Dr. Roberts greeted as he entered and read - most likely - John's file. Sherlock nodded in response, not taking his eyes of John. "I'm Doctor Roberts. I expect that you to know my name, but I wanted to meet you officially."

"John Watson is suffering from aphasia, am I right?" He waited for Sherlock to nod his head and then went on with his story. "We can rule some possibilities out, but we have to do some tests to confirm which kind of aphasia he has. Most of the time people with aphasia have a complete recovery, especially when they start speech therapy in the early stages."

"I need to perform a standard procedure; asking questions and such. Answering and understanding will be a bit difficult considering the situation, so I'm going to write it down and show it to John. There's a possibility he wouldn't be able to read it, but I'll instruct and demonstrate what John has to do. If he doesn't understand, we have to wait and get help from a speech therapist."

Sherlock gritted his teeth; he had to play nice with an idiot. He wasn't one only because he was sleeping with his boss to get himself promoted but that he thought Sherlock wouldn't know what the doctor's standard procedures were.

Mycroft did this on purpose, Sherlock thought.

Roberts grabbed a pencil torch from one of the pockets of his white jacket. He checked John's eyes before asking, "Can you lift your arm above your head?"

The idiot doctor demonstrated what John had to do as he said that. Sherlock saw John's eyes follow the movement and he nodded in understanding.

It killed Sherlock to see John this way. John was almost a - _what__ did John call those people? Think Sherlock! He always says it when you're not putting your safety first... A vegetable!_ Yes, John was almost a vegetable. How he is moving, his eyes not understanding and recognizing...

John seemed to struggle to begin with, but when his left hand was about ten centimeters up in the air it came to him more easily. Sherlock saw John's eyes growwing more content when he saw it too. They saddened when the three people in the room realized John's hand couldn't go any higher than his shoulder.

"Okay, now lower your arm and make your hand into a fist," Robert said kindly, as he demonstrated it with his own hand.

John lowered his arm and tried to make a ball of the hand that just moments ago hung in the air. His distal phalanxes almost reached his thenar and hypothenar. It was interesting to see that the tremor in his hand wasn't there.

Sherlock almost yelled to himself in his mind. He had to concentrate on John, there was no time to study the anatomy of the - John's - hand; he was nearly dead for Gods' sake. The doctors - God forbid he'd say 'Mycroft' - were right; John was lucky.

The fingers couldn't quite get to the palm of John's hand, but at least he could move his hand.

Roberts moved to the end of the bed, revealed John's feet by moving the quilt from his bed.

"I need you to move your toes," Roberts requested as he pointed at John's toes.

John seemed to understand and wiggled his toes on both feet with ease and a satisfied and relieved smile appeared on John's face. It made Sherlock happy and he realized he missed that. The detective grew curious and wondered what else he had missed, and suddenly felt the urge to find out. He knew he couldn't, though. John had to heal as quickly as possible.

"Excellent," Robert said as he gave a smile. "Now, I'm going to ask you some questions and write them at the same time. You have to answer."

"I want to kindly remind you that John doesn't understand anything you say, so please do continue your tests and save your breath." Sherlock snapped.

Roberts sighed in response, grabbed his notepad from his pocket and he was writing something on it.

"Do you know who you are?" He asked as he showed his notepad.

John's eyes were wandering; from the paper to Roberts, but his eyes contained nothing what seemed like understanding or recognition whatsoever. Sherlock didn't know if it was not having the ability to understand the written words or that John actually didn't know who he was.

**[3:08 PM] SEND TO: MYCROFT**

**Any recommendation for a speech therapist? - SH**

* * *

**Again, I am so sorry about my stupid mistake. It seems like I can't say it enough. I hope you lot forgive me.**

**HUGE thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited or reviewed the story. I always try to reply to the reviews. I honestly don't know when the next chapter is up. I think about updating my profile every now and then to give you updates of how the story is developing. Like, 'Broken hearted chapter 13: Started it yesterday.' Do you think that's a good idea? Please PM or review in response. **

**LATERS!**


	13. Chapter 13

**It's raining today - not that that's surprising in Holland, really, but it puts me in the perfect mood to write. But be warned: don't expect a happy chapter, because the weather today is helping me to make this chapter extra sad.**

**Oh, and again: I've never had Wernicke's aphasia, nor a brain injury. I'm not a doctor either so please forgive me if I get anything wrong and I ask you to be so kind to tell me about the mistake. **_**Spoilers!**_** Oops wrong fandom, lol. **

**I have to tell you all that the next chapter won't be up as fast as this one did, because school is going to be CRAZY next week, but I'm not going to nag about it _here._**

**Also, I wanted to say thanks to 'johnsarmylady' for reviewing on every chapter and 'jack63kids' for again, beta'ing my story. **

**I hope you enjoy this chapter, and be sure to tell me what you think of it! *hint hint***

* * *

John's recovery was remarkable.

Well, he wasn't completely recovered yet - far from it, actually, but after just two sessions of speech therapy John could understand some words. The final goal for him was of course to use the English language properly again, but an early part of that was understanding the words. And that part was improving rather well, John's speech therapist - Susan Lloyd - had said to Sherlock.

She had taught John the basic's of lip reading. Lip reading normally took ages to master, so they didn't expect John to learn it immediately. However, he picked up basic words fairly quickly such as his own name, 'hello', 'bye', 'alright' plus a few others.

The other part of the recovery wasn't improving as equally as the understanding. No, every sentence or word he wanted to say was completely transformed into other random or made-up words. Most of the time you could hear by the tone of his voice if he wanted to ask something, if he was irritated or happy. The first words of his sentence were always right, at least that was what Sherlock thought. It always started with a logical word; 'how', 'why', 'it' and so on.

Sherlock glanced at the clock above the door. _They're late,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

He sat on a bench across from an office John was in. The hospital - _Mycroft_ - had provided a currently unused office somewhere in the hospital for Lloyd, the speech therapist. She had her own speech rehabilitation centre, but Sherlock had persuaded her to come every day to the hospital. So, thanks to Sherlock, John had an appointment -_ private, unfortunately_ - everyday from eight to ten o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock looked at the clock again. 10:04 AM. Sherlock hastily stood up, took a couple of big strides towards the door and opened it. He was surprised by what he saw - and not in a good way.

John was standing fairly close to Lloyd, who rested her arm on John's shoulder. They were both smiling and looking at each other when the detective came in - they weren't anymore of course. It looked dangerously close to flirting - and Sherlock had to admit that was impressive for a man who could barely understand a certain language, let alone speak it.

"You're late," Sherlock snapped towards Lloyd, not wanting to scare John with his possessiveness.

Sherlock knew he was getting too clingy to John lately; he always wanted to be with him. However, Sherlock found it reasonable, after all; John was kidnapped, now injured, and his current best friend and lover didn't want it to happen again. Those were some good reasons to explain his behavior, he decided.

And that was why he didn't like John going to see the speech therapist, alone. He had private sessions, that was what Lloyd had insisted. After all, Sherlock wasn't family or his husband.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said innocently and sweet, which made Sherlock growl in his mind. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

Sherlock waited for John outside the office and saw him smile at her, and managed to get a proper 'bye' out of his mouth. Sherlock wanted to ask John what the hell he was doing, but knew that was a waste of effort.

* * *

"Down, down, **down!**" John heard and followed the instructions.

He was on a deserted landscape, here and there some trees and bushes. What John immediately had noticed was the heat. John felt like he was in some sort of oven, especially when the sun was shining so brightly on his head.

He felt familiar with this landscape, but could not recognize it.

He allowed himself to think that he was in Afghanistan again, because that was the most likely location. There was something strange about this place, he decided, but he could not work out what was so particular.

The army doctor saw soldiers running and hiding behind trees and stones, pointing and firing their guns at something but John couldn't see the enemy, foe. In fact, he could not see anybody except his troop.

_His _troop? Since when had he owned a troop? He certainly hadn't been told about that, so why did he think of the soldiers as _his_ troop?

Suddenly, there was a man standing next to John. He was young, had green eyes and had short, golden hair. The area around his groin and upper leg were covered with a huge blood stain. John frowned, knowing that the man was on the edge of death but yet he hadn't shown the slightest bit of pain.

"Making false promises, are we? Even after I gave up my life for you," the man said as John felt a flood of guilt running through his veins, he had no idea why. Out of nowhere, John's head began to bleed. He had no pain whatsoever, just blood. The man crouched and whispered in John's ear. "You have to remember, John, _remember._"

Remember what? Remember the man? Because he hadn't known the man, he was certain of that. That's the reason why he found it so weird that he felt guilty about him.

John's train of thought stopped as he heard a gun shot, and felt very, _very_ real pain in his leg. He had the time to realize he was shot by the man before he passed out.

* * *

John woke up with a start. He looked around the room he was in and found that the Man wasn't sitting next to him_, _as he normally did.

John frowned, that was weird. He did not know who the Man was, but he always sat next to him.

_Why was he always there? Is he in the military of some sorts? Did he want to be there or did he have to be present? Who is he? _It was infuriating to have so many questions and so few answers. It was even more infuriating when he couldn't even ask the questions.

John knew that he'd some kind of aphasia. There were obvious signs; a daily appointment with someone who was presumably a speech therapist - a pretty one too, he always fixed his hair when he was going to meet her - people not understanding the words he said but believing that those words were logical, the difficulty to speak, write and read. However, his hearing and speaking-part were improving, much to John's relief.

He could hear logical words within people's illogical sentences and judging whether it was a question or a statement.

But there was a question that was always in his mind.

_If I've been hospitalized with a leg wound, which there's no sign of, why do I have a brain injury_?

John's train of thought drove immediately back to the dream. The man with the blood said he had to remember. _For God's sake, what do I have to remember?_

He tried to remember the last thing that was engraved in his mind.

_Afghanistan, shot in the leg... Bloody hell, why was this so hard? Hospital, then the other hospital - at least, I hope they were hospitals._

John saw a few people coming in, he recognized two of them as the doctor who had treated him earlier and the Man. The three others were obviously nurses. The Man reunited their hands as the nurses made his bed ready for moving. John looked up to the Man and found that his expression was blank, again. John noticed a long time ago that the Man could control his expressions really well. Then the Man began to talk, and to John's surprise he could manage to figure out some words; lip reading and actually hearing. Maybe his healing was getting better than he'd thought.

"John, you're ... to ... ... room, ... ..."

His bed began to move, pushed by the nurses, the Man still holding John's hand and the doctor walking in front of them. They took a couple of turns, and entered a room. John recognized it as the MRI scan-room. The nurses made sure that John wouldn't move - they had said it, John didn't understand it but knew he mustn't move - and left afterwards.

The Man and the doctor entered the glass monitor-room, sitting in front of a desk and computers, facing John.

The army doctor felt nervous, if he were being honest. He knew that aphasia wasn't the only thing going on; the comfortable feeling around the Man who he had never met and the difficulty to remember. Plus, he hadn't seen _anybody_ who he'd recognized; not the soldiers, or... Harry. Not even Harry.

John wondered how Harry was doing. Sure, he hadn't liked the fact that Harry was an alcoholic at all, but it has been what... two or three years? He hadn't even counted the days he was in the army; the days flew by. But still, Harry was and always will be his sister.

John could hear the machine starting.

* * *

The first photograph.

Nothing.

Sherlock felt huge relief, but didn't let himself enjoy it; it wasn't the whole brain yet. And John's brain had definitely some damage.

The second photograph.

Nothing.

The third photograph.

A couple of white spots near the Broca's and Wernicke's area of the brain. Sherlock swallowed.

The fourth photograph.

The white spot on the Wernicke's area began to grow. Sherlock looked up towards John; he was laying utterly still._  
_

The fifth photograph.

White spot on the hippocampus.

The sixth photograph.

The dot on Broca's area remained as it was, the patch over Wernicke's area seemed to have got no bigger on the last photo and the one on the hippocampus was as big as a coin.

The photograph's continued as Sherlock's mind was racing.

_Hippocampus: the place memory is stored, where new information is processed. Broca's area: the area with functions of speech production. Wernicke's area: the region linked to the cerebral cortex, the same as Broca's area, that controls the ability to understand written and spoken language. _

Sherlock looked towards John again. _God, you have no idea how serious this is, have you? _Sherlock's eyes widened. _You have probably no idea who I am either..._

* * *

Sherlock sat in the chair next to John's bed, holding John's hand. The normally usual position they were sitting in was unusual this time.

The detective knew that John's brain had damage in Wernicke's and Broca's area. That explained the aphasia. But there had been damage in the hippocampus too, and that was the more serious factor as far as Sherlock was concerned.

Sherlock simply had to know... that one question he didn't have the nerve to ask. It could be useless too, because John couldn't understand the language. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. There were good days, and bad days. And Sherlock knew this was a good day.

This was his chance... maybe his only chance.

Sherlock swallowed.

"John," he said to get John's attention. "Do..." Sherlock coughed. "Do you remember me..." pause. "... at all?"

Sherlock locked eyes with John. John's beautiful, blue eyes. The innocent eyes that held guilt and hurt in them now.

John shook his head.

You could barely see it, but Sherlock saw it for certain.

_Oh God..._


	14. Chapter 14

**The reason why this took me so long was A) school. GAHH! B****) I had to decide whether I wanted Sherlock to be at John's side or... not. I have to keep John AND Sherlock in character, otherwise the story will be awful and you all will stop reading. So find out for yourself which choice I made...**

**Enormous thanks to the beta's for this chapter: 'Anastasia Dove' and 'jack63kids'!  
**

* * *

The moment John shook his head, he felt a shot of guilt and remorse. The mask the Man normally put on, wasn't there anymore. The soldier could see the pain not only in the ice-blue eyes, but his face showed the emotion everywhere.

The Man blinked slowly, and John was startled. The only thing he saw this time was pure coldness. It was if as he turned his emotions off, if he ever had them on.

_Of course he had feelings,_ John thought to himself,_ I saw them myself. _

John felt bad for the Man. He had clearly played a big part in the Man's life, and he didn't even remember it.

Another shot of guilt.

But what could John do, really? It wasn't his fault that he had lost his memory - at least, he thinks. He knows himself well enough to know that he wouldn't put himself in that sort of position. But who knows, maybe he had changed in the last... he didn't know how long. He knew that he was shot for some time after he left Britain, two or three years.

How long has it really been? What had John missed from in his life? Was it important? What exactly had happened? Was the Man significant in his life?

John wanted to ask all these questions, but knew it'd all come out wrong. It was no use.

He didn't trust his voice either - that's why he shook his head just moments ago. He could manage a simple 'no', but his voice probably would be broken so he decided to use his head. That was meant in a literal way, but he could use his head figuratively again, too; his head had stopped being fuzzy. Well, he knew he was on a certain kind of pain medication, so it hadn't exactly _stopped, _but the feeling was much better now.

Suddenly, the brown-haired man stood up and let his hand go as he walked away. The soldier expected a glance back to him when he left the room but there was nothing.

* * *

The first day after the revealing was filled with, well, nothing. Some tests, but the Man was nowhere in sight.

John went to his speech therapist in the morning, brought and picked up by a nurse in a wheelchair. He didn't trust his leg, yet. It hurt even though he was on pain medication. After that he was brought to his room again, answering questions such as 'What's your name?' and 'What date is it?'. He scored six out of ten. He knew it wasn't a bad score, it could be much worse, but it wasn't ideal either. After the doctor left, he had lain in his bed, thinking of the day before.

Every time John thought of the Man's hurt expression, he felt even more guilty. And curious. Yes, it was weird, but John grew curious. He wanted to know what he'd missed and the Man's part in his life. It was obviously major because of the brown-haired man's reaction.

_Ouch!_

A shot of guilt ran through him.

He sighed.

_God, how will I survive this mess?_

* * *

The second day after the Man's reaction was more intriguing.

After John's visit to his speech therapist - which had gone really well, he only had problems with his speaking now, and the understanding part of his recovery was going remarkably well. He was content with the progress, as a doctor and a patient.

John was dozing in his hospital bed, drifting into and out of sleep, when Harry came in. Yes, his Harry, his _sister, _the one who he hadn't seen for... God knows how long.

She looked tired, distressed and scared when he first opened his eyes. She sat in the chair where the Man usually sat, and that made John feel another guilt shot through his heart. When his sister realized he was awake, her sorrowful eyes turned into relieved ones.

Her blonde, sandy and messy hair was sticking on her forehead. Her eyes were reddish, clear and alert. However, there were dark rings under her eyes. Her appearance practically screamed fatigue. John suddenly saw his hand removing the locks of hair which were sticking to her face, he wasn't even aware of the movement.

"So you remember me then?" he heard her softly saying.

"Yes," he managed to say and the soldier saw more relief in her face.

John wasn't sure if it was her speaking so softly he couldn't hear her or that it was his aphasia but she murmured something. "You don't know how much I missed you, how worried you made me," she blinked rapidly to contain her tears. When she stopped, she continued talking. "You got me off the booze," she joked. She tried to smile but it turned more into a grimace, and John found himself not being able to smile.

"Booze?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, right, you didn't know about that. I broke up with Clara seven months ago, since then I-" she coughed uncomfortably. "- hit the booze every now and then..."

John frowned, however, he saw this happening. It was only a matter of time, but that it was his sister who had broken up had surprised him.

Harry had always been an heavy drinker. Whenever there was something bad happening, like a break up, she hit the booze. John remembered that they were close and Clara always seemed to take care of his sister. It surprised him.

"Why?" he heard himself ask.

"Why Clara left me or why I began drinking?" John shook his head when she said the latter one, so she knew he meant the first one. "Well, I - She -" she sighed. "Let's talk about you." John frowned again, but Harry ignored it and suddenly found her shoes fascinating. "What do you want to know? Because, I assume you want to know _something..._"

John opened his mouth but Harry quickly began speaking. "No! Not about Clara and me, about _you._"

John sighed, knowing that his sister was too stubborn to talk about their break-up. He closed his eyes as he decided what he wanted to know first. Perhaps she knew who the Man was... He opened his eyes and focused on his speech; if he wanted to ask who the Man was - perhaps it was a simple question, but when you have aphasia, nothing's simple - he had to do it well.

"Who," he started, "was the," he saw Harry nod, so he figured his speech was perfectly understandable and continued, "the Man?"

"Which man?" She started to look worried. "Was there a man in this room?" He sighed, knowing that he couldn't provide more information. "There can't have been a man in here. I thought Sherlock was keeping an eye on you?" She looked around the hospital room. "Besides, where is he anyway?"

"Who's... Sherlock?"

She stopped looking around the room and gazed at John suspiciously. He was growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

John saw something clicking in her head. "Oh Johnny," she sighed and then reached for his hand. "Did you mean him? You did, didn't you?" She slid off her chair and sat on her knees, her forehead leaning on the back of their hands. "God, John... Do you not remember him at all?"

John shook his head.

"I can't say much about him, since I only saw him once on Christmas evening, but you kept a blog about him. The blog was a recommendation of your therapist at the time, after you've been shot in the leg..." she paused. "Can't remember her name, sorry. Do - Do you want me to tell you about him?"

John slowly nodded. "Please," he said and winced as he heard his own broken voice.

"Right, so... I'll start with his appearance then..." she coughed awkwardly. "He has sharp cheek bones, dark-brown curly hair, his eyes were blue, I think. I only know from your blog that you've met him through Mike Stamford. You were keeping a blog because your therapist, Ella, recommended it. Anyhow, you started to go with him on cases and that sort of thing. You wrote those cases on your blog, that kept me in touch with you most of the time. That started about one and a half years ago, if not longer. Apparently you were running through London all the time, that I read on your blog. You seemed to have fun doing it, although I didn't approve. I think you can see that clearly in some comments I left on your blog." She tried to make her brother and herself laugh, but failed. The moment was too intense, too important for John.

"He seemed to be important in your life. And I could see it too, when I came over for Christmas. He was obviously annoyed that he had to celebrate Christmas. You told me he doesn't value unimportant things such as Christmas, or even the solar system. But I guess that is one of the things you love most about him. I honestly don't know how you put up with him, and I met him _once. _And then..." She looked down again, obviously preparing for this part. John curiosity grew and tapped his fingers on his quilt impatiently. After a heavy sigh, she continued.

"... and then you had to wait for three years. Three, long, depressed, excruciating and hard years." She looked him intense in the eyes. They were worrisome, John noticed. He gave her an encouraging nod. "God, I'm experiencing this all over again." A pause. "He'd convinced you that he was a fake, that he had invented Moriarty. Most of the people believed him, but you didn't. You always kept faith."

"After he jumped off St. Bart's, the place where you are lying right now and where you two had met, you were devastated. At first, you locked yourself up in 221B Baker Street for a week, where you two have lived and are living. You didn't want to talk with anybody. You completely cut yourself off from the world. Then, you packed your bags and came to my house. You said you wanted to get away from the flat because there were too many things that reminded you of Sherlock." Her breath caught in her throat. She had to take a few steady breaths before she continued.

"It was terrible. You, looked terrible. You were skinny, your eyes looked haunted and exhausted and yet you seemed to be completely calm. You told me several times you were fine and I knew you were not. Those were the only words that came from your mouth. You didn't talk to anybody. Not even to your own sister." There were several tears running down her cheek now. "You slept on the sofa, even though I had a guest room available for you. You simply didn't want the comfort. I -" Tears were streaming. "God, Johnny, I'm so sorry, you have to forgive me." She squeezed John's hand.

"I was sick of it. I wanted you to eat, to sleep, to have a normal life. You were depressed and I couldn't stand it. I grew angry at you. After two weeks of yelling at you, they were no fights since you didn't talk to me, you weren't there when I came home after work. Your bags weren't there anymore. I panicked. I called you like a hundred times but you didn't pick up. I went to Baker Street, but you weren't there either. After a week you sent me a text. It said that you were fine and had shelter, so I didn't have to worry. As a sister, I simply wanted proof. After another two weeks, you finally accepted one of my calls and told me your address. I visited you for about half an hour and it still wasn't enough for me, but I accepted I couldn't do anything else than just be there for you when you wanted me to."

She wiped the tears from her face, they had stopped coming down now. John was having a hard time to keep himself strong for her, and not break down with all the emotions he was feeling.

"So, after a year you got better, you got a job and had some dates but each time I saw you I saw emptiness in your eyes. I know you were missing Sherlock with your whole heart, but I couldn't do anything for you and that part devastated me. I tried to be there for you at all times, but you simply wouldn't let me help you. You didn't want help. By year two, you were at a low point again when the people who believed in Sherlock tried to clear his name. I didn't know what exactly happened in your head, but you had a break-down. After repeating the effects of the first and heaviest break-down, you recovered after two months and you pretended to be happy. I believed you were after you met a woman called Mary. You dated her a year but a couple months before Sherlock's return she wanted to break, since she had to move to the United States because of her work. You remained her friend, though, you told me."

"After three years of waiting he returned. You were angry at him. You even punched him in the face, you said to me. You and I laughed about it and after a few days you managed to see him again. After that, I don't know much except for you two to have an intimate relationship..." She smirked at the last statement.

_So, _John thought to himself. God, even when he was thinking, his voice sounded broken. _I think I just lost five years of my life._

* * *

**So, yeah... don't kill me. But to be honest, when you're following a story called 'Broken Hearted' you don't expect pink elephants jumping into the air spurting confetti, right? **

**Please, tell me what you think when you have time; feedback is highly appreciated!**


	15. Chapter 15

**First I want to say I hope you lot have had a nice Christmas and hope that you'll all have a good turn of the year and I wish you all an AMAZING 2013.**

**I'm so [enter your own creative bad word here] sorry for the delay. The story just doesn't come as easily to me as the other ones I am currently writing (but honestly, that's not really an excuse). That's why I want to ask you, my beloved and awesome readers, to send me ideas about what you want to have in this story, while you still can. I have a plot in mind, don't worry, but no end yet, but that will come. If you want to see anything in this story, PLEASE SAY SO.**

**By the way, I'm not only researching about amnesia (memory loss) and aphasia on the internet; my friend is suffering from amnesia (she has lost more than 7 years of memories; it's comparable with John) so I get my information from her, too. So if you think something is not quite right, the reason is that I write some experiences from her. However, every brain injury is different from the other.**

**I want to give you all a HUGE thanks for following the story so far, I know I haven't updated very fast and I'm sorry for that, but I can't change it.**

**Don't kill me after you read this chapter and please, enjoy!**

* * *

Five years.

Five _bloody _years.

The only positive side of the story was the fact that he understood most of it. He'd guessed some words that somehow weren't processed in his brain but those sentences were easy to fill in.

John wanted to read the blog he had been writing. The blog with his history written in it. _His_ blog.

Why? Why a blog?

Why'd he done so many things that he would never have expected of himself? Was John a different man after the war, perhaps?

"Johnny," Harry still held his hand. "Sherlock knows a lot more than I do about the last five years. It pains me to say it though, because I am your sister and I should know more, but I don't." John saw her growing more angry at herself. "All because I started drinking! If I hadn't, we would be so much closer and-" John heard her vaguely, he couldn't pay much attention to her even though he tried.

She started drinking and I don't know anything about it. He felt horrible; he was her brother. He should have been there for her, instead of running off to crimes with a man and blogging about it. Harry told him that he had a relationship with the man.

A _man_.

Since when was he gay?

He always thought of himself as a straight bloke because he'd never had any interest. He simply hadn't. Of course, you can say that the Man - _Sherlock_, he corrected himself - was sort of... attractive. He wasn't ugly, but John had never expected to be gay. Not that he has anything against it, but still...

Oh god, he was even rambling in his own head.

He turned his attention back from his thoughts to his sister. "Harry!" John sandwiched her hand with of both his. "Go easy on yourself, as long as you keep being sober, all will be fine."

"I'm sorry, Johnny-boy," she apologized. "I should let you rest now, the doctors said that I shouldn't wear you out. Don't worry, I'll stay in the hospital. Think I'm going to get a coffee, I need it." She patted his hands awkwardly, stood up and shared a smile with her brother as she left the room.

As soon as she left, John's brain began to rattle.

He knew that sleeping was impossible, with all the new information he'd got from Harry. All he wanted to do was search for answers but he couldn't. He wanted to read his blog he was apparently writing, but knew that he couldn't read either and that he'd have to wait.

Patience.

Bloody patience.

Harry said that the Man - _Sherlock_ - knew more about him than his own sister.

Sherlock.

Weird name for a weird man, he thought.

John suddenly felt anger boiling up.

If the Man - _Sherlock_ - knew him so bloody well, why wasn't he here? Why was his sister here and not that man? It was practically obligatory for someone to be with his partner in the hospital. If you love somebody, you would at least visit him or her. Did that mean that Sherlock didn't love him? Did John scare him off after Sherlock knew he didn't recognize him? That he hadn't known him anymore? Was that frightening? He supposed it was, but you had to make sacrifices for a partner? Didn't Sherlock want to pick up the pieces and if he didn't, why the bloody hell was that? Why did he leave?

* * *

"Why?"

"If you want a reasonable answer, you should be more specific."

"Why aren't you around John anymore? Why did you leave him on his own? What happened between you?" Harry threw her hands up in the air of frustration. "Why won't you give me answers?"

Sherlock simply replied by playing his violin. Harry had walked into the flat to hear him making beautiful music, even she had to admit. She didn't have much knowledge about music, but she had her own opinions. What Sherlock played was at that moment, was something she hadn't heard before.

"For God's sake! Stop playing, sit and give me answers!" she demanded. When the tunes just got louder she tried a different approach. "John sent me."

The music stopped.

"I know," he turned around from the window, but kept his violin on his shoulder, ready to play again.

"You know, he wants some answers too," Harry let her hands hang beside her.

"I know," he said impatiently. Harry had to wait a few moments for her to be sure that she won't lose her temper.

"So why won't you give them to us? Look, I know you don't like me because I hurt John in the past, but please do it for him if not for me," Harry tried.

"I don't deserve him," she heard him mutter.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry asked confused.

"You heard me," Sherlock said annoyed.

"Yes, yes I did, but I want you to explain."

He sighed impatiently. "I don't deserve him. I'm bad for him. I put him in danger, you are aware of that since you followed that ridiculous blog of his. He doesn't deserve to be in danger all the time. He doesn't remember me, so now is my chance to get away from his life. I'm leaving his life." He spoke fast, faster than Harry had heard anyone talk in her life. His face remained stoic all through the talk.

"Would you stop it!" Harry forgot that she had to be calm and approachable. "He knows what he's getting himself into and he still wants it. Wants you. My brother loves you!" Harry hoped to see a smile on his face at those words, but it remained unreadable.

"Wanted," he corrected Harry. "He wanted me. He doesn't want me anymore."

"How do you know that? Go into that room and ask him. Tell him. At least visit him! If he didn't care, why would he send me to you?" No response. She sighed and rubbed her eyes with one hand for a moment. "I think I have an answer for you. You know how people are always wondering how John puts up with you?" He gave her a small, uncertain nod. "He loves you. He wants you. He adores you. You fascinate him. That's why he can tolerate you. I don't know why, but he just does!"

For a few moments they just stared at each other. Harry waiting for an answer that would hopefully make her brother happy and Sherlock... Well, she didn't know exactly what he was thinking about. Who could possibly know with this man? John could. But could he now, after his mystery-accident which caused the amnesia? God, nobody had informed her, his own bloody sister, what had happened. Nobody, not even the doctors.

"I have given you an answer," Sherlock said, turning his attention to his violin again. He played again, very loudly this time, but still beautiful music. Harry hadn't many options so she simply left the flat.

* * *

"Ready?" Harry asked, with a laptop on her knee. She was lying on - or rather: sandwiched between John and the railing - on John's bed with John beside her. She was determined to get Sherlock and John back together - as friends or partners, it didn't matter to her; as long John was happy - and she would make John aware of their relationship together by reading his blog, to let him see how close they were, because Sherlock couldn't just leave, could he? Then again, it was Sherlock they were talking about. He would do whatever he wanted.

Perhaps the blog wasn't such a good idea, since John hadn't poured his heart out over it. He was hardly the type to do that, however he had tried because of Ella's insists. In addition to that, John had to concentrate on the story and for someone with a brain injury, it was very difficult to do that. However, she'd try anything for her little brother.

Harry decided to read the blog to John, until he was ready to read on his own. She felt a bit like a mother reading to her kid just before bedtime. John was reading with her, at least she had hoped so, but if he'd understand anything she'd read to him she didn't know. She'd try. She would always try.

After he nodded, she started on the first blog entry. It really didn't deserve that name since only one sentence was in it, but she'd read it to him so he'd know how his life after Afghanistan had been. She wasn't a big part of it, at least not until Sherlock faked his death, but the blog was a decent enough substitution.

_Wow_, she realized, _I've been replaced by a blog._ She knew it was her fault in the first place, of course. She had started drinking and John hadn't wanted to see her that way. Entirely understandable, but it was still hard for her. Perhaps that was another reason for her to drink more. God, how she wished she hadn't. At least she was on the right path, for now.

She knew if she started drinking again, she wouldn't be able to get into the hospital. Not when she was drunk, nor even a bit tipsy. The security was high, she noticed before when she'd first walked in, but she didn't know if that only was for John, for someone else or for everybody. They wouldn't let her in the room if she had been drinking. Plus, John would be cross. Or would he be disappointed? She had seen him disappointed in her before, many times actually. She hadn't wanted to make him feel that way again. That was a bigger priority, written in her head like a gigantic neon sign; '_DO NOT HURT JOHN OR MAKE HIM ANGRY_'.

Her heart sank as she saw his face. It was a mix of sadness, vulnerability, curiosity, admiration, uncertainty, anger - why would he be angry? - and something soft in his eyes, but she couldn't read them. It was so unlike John; she always had seen him - still did, actually - as a strong, independent and brave man but to see him vulnerable like this, was coming close to causing a disturbance to her usual placid feelings.

She was halfway through the Blind Banker, as John called it in his blog, when she felt a heavy weight on her shoulder. She didn't need to turn her head to know what had happened; John was sleeping, leaning on her shoulder. She kicked herself mentally as she realized that John would be worn out after processing all this new information, especially after this much. He was still recuperating, of course. She smiled and closed her laptop. She closed her eyes and soon the older sister was in dreamland as well.


	16. Chapter 16

**This and the previous chapter is beta'd by the lovely 'jack63kids'. All mistakes are mine.**

* * *

He had spoken the truth to John's sister.

Sherlock had no regrets about meeting John and living with him. He was not boring, he was kind and he laughed at Sherlock's jokes. He actually liked him, he wasn't faking it, and Sherlock still didn't quite believe that. He was one of the few people in Sherlock's life that liked him, who enjoyed being in the presence of Sherlock.

_Had_ liked him.

He doesn't anymore. Sherlock was sure of it. And why would he? Sherlock left his side when he had the opportunity to heal John, to make him better. But Sherlock did, only not in the obvious way.

Sherlock _did_ regret having John in his life. He was there, almost twenty-four hours a day. Sherlock didn't mind, of course, he was quite fond of him but he hadn't wanted John to be in danger all the time. John didn't deserved that. He had already had enough danger in his life. Far more than enough for one life.

John did deserve a partner. A truthful, kind, attractive and especially a safe partner. A woman. Mary, perhaps.

Sherlock had done research about the woman. She was perfect for the job; a sad history but that had made her 'wonderful', John had said about her. Her hair was blonde, her eyes were green and she was shorter than John. She was just his type; a perfect match.

Sherlock didn't allow himself to be jealous or envious, or even angry at himself. It was the best for John. He'd be happy.

John deserved to be happy.

* * *

"John?" Harry asked carefully. John and his sister locked eyes. She continued, "the doctor encourages you to speak to people you met in the five years you missed. The aphasia is almost healed, right? So, are you ready to speak with someone other than me, the nurse or the doctor?"

She made John feel curious, and nervous. She was right; the aphasia was almost gone but John hadn't spoken much in the eleven days he had lain consciously here. Sometimes he gave an answer but that was it. Who was this person and was he or she important in his life? "Sherlock?" John asked.

Harry looked at John with pity in her eyes. She shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not." Harry walked over to John's bed. "Do you want that? To see him, that is?" she asked. John wasn't sure if he heard it correctly, but it seemed like she was asking the question hopefully. Why would she do that? Harry had told him herself that she didn't approve of Sherlock. She didn't like him because of leading her brother into dangerous cases, she had said. Then why would she be hopeful about John wanting to see him?

If John was being honest, the answer would be 'yes'. He'd like to know what was in his past - if you could call five years your past - because Sherlock was there all the time. He was told they'd lived together. They were friends. After a while, they were more than friends. John wasn't gay, he knew that. There were always women in his youth, college and before he was sent to Afghanistan. Why would he have a relationship with a man after all this time? What was so special about him? Yes, John had seen the man who was apparently so important in his life and he'd seen he was special; in a weird kind of way. But that didn't convince John that he was destined to have a relationship with him, right?

What happened in those five years? No, he doesn't mean the straight lines; where he lived, where he worked and those kind of things, but; what had he thought? How did he think? What were his feelings? John was afraid only Sherlock could answer those questions, but he wasn't there.

Why wasn't he there? Harry said Sherlock was the most important man in his last five years, maybe even in his whole life. Why the hell wouldn't he come to explain the things he wanted to know? Why did he left after he realized John didn't remember him? It seemed to John that a partner - or what the hell they had been to each other - must be there in the good and the bad phases in their lives. Especially in bad one. And this was one. This _is_ one. So he would answer 'no', because he didn't think Sherlock was worth it at the moment.

"Never mind," Harry said disappointedly. "It wasn't Sherlock I was talking about, but Mary Morstan. You know, you'd had a relationship with her, I told you, didn't I? She's back in Britain again, she told me she was made redundant in the US for financial reasons. Anyway, do you want to see her?" John nodded. Mary was the only one beside Sherlock to have the answers John would be content with. "Okay, if you need me, I'm in the hospital's canteen," Harry walked away to the door again and left. A few minutes later, a woman with blonde hair and a red raincoat stood at the door. She had a lovely smile on her face and it lit up the whole, boring, white hospital room. Beneath her, a few water drops dripped on the floor and made a small puddle.

"Hello, John," she greeted him. John tried not to stare and shook his head a bit to wake himself up. He smiled in response.

She walked over to the chairs and sat on one. She left her wet, brown leather bag on the other seat. Mary grabbed her chair on both sides and pulled it forward, towards John and his bed.

"Oh John," she murmered. Her eyes roamed over John's body and stayed on John's face. The bandage was still on his head, making him look worse than he actually felt. She obviously had to restrain herself. "I'm sorry, but can I hug you?" John gave her a small nod, a bit confused; why wouldn't she be allowed to hug him? After she saw the nod, she immediately leaned forward and pulled him in for a hug. She buried her head in John's neck. "God, I missed you so much, don't you ever disappear that way again."

"You know what happened?" John asked quietly.

"No, nobody does, but don't disappear again, okay?" Mary squeezed John and then pulled away. "I'm sorry, I had to do that; I was so worried about you." John smiled warmly. It was nice to know someone had cared about him, besides Harry. "So, Harry told me you'd like to know some things, what would you like to know?" she asked awkwardly; not knowing what to do next.

"How are you?"

Mary was stunned, it took a few seconds for her to reply. "I- I'm sorry, I expected you wanted to talk about your life." She coughed. "Well, I'm fine, actually, I've bought a new apartment in the centre of London. I was quite content with my old house, but my boyfriend persuaded me," John's stomach dropped. Well, what did you expect, Watson? He thought to himself, Harry told him they were friends, so they were not involved - at least, not anymore. She continued as John tried to listen instead of staring at her. "We've only been dating for three weeks, but he's worth it. He's handsome and knows precisely what I want. We're on the same page, that's hard to find these days. Oh! I'm sorry John, I suppose you don't want to hear about typical girl-stuff. Anyhow, I'd like you to meet him once you're out of this hospital, if you want that. When are you being discharged?" She rambled on and on, but John thought her voice was something nice to hear.

_She has a boyfriend_, John reminded himself over and over.

"This week," John answered.

"Really? That's kind of fast, isn't it?"

"Yes," _but I hate it here, _he added in his head. It was true; he hated the caring, the independence, he couldn't do what he wanted to do and so on. It wasn't like him to stay in bed all day long, sometimes leaving it for some tests or therapy.

"You want to meet him?" Mary asked hopefully.

"Sure."

* * *

They talked about everything and nothing after that. They laughed and talked - well, Mary was doing most of the talking, John was still quiet. After Mary had said she had to go - a date, to John's disappointment - John had asked if she'd send Harry to his hospital room again.

"And?" Harry as she entered the room.

John groaned and put his hands momentarily in the air. "Why does she have boyfriend?"

Harry smiled, although her mouth was happy, there was sadness in her eyes. "Johnny, people move on. I should know, I've experience," she joked but failed to make her brother laugh. John covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry." Harry walked over to the chair Mary had pulled forwards to the bed and sat on it. She tugged his hands away. "Come on, let's be miserable together and watch a soap opera even worse than our problems." She smirked, retrieved the remote and zapped through the channels.

* * *

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, John, I'm hundred percent certain."

"Do you know the risks?"

"Yes, John." Harry sighed. She wouldn't really call them risks. More obstacles or results of a dangerous life. She wouldn't really have a problem with panic attacks or nightmares. She tried to be there for him, and she thought she was succeeding thus far. Harry was proud of that fact, if she was honest. A lot in her life had gone wrong or she had done things that made it go wrong, and this was the first good thing she had done in a while. Providing John shelter until they both thought he could live on his own was a good thing, she supposed. Of course, John already was convinced that he could live on his own but Harry wasn't going to give in yet. Maybe a few weeks of waiting would convince her.

Harry knew why John was reluctant to live with her, naturally. John was always one for privacy. Not physical, but emotional. He didn't like it if he had to talk about his emotions or problems. It was idiotic, but she knew she was a hypocrite for thinking that. It ran in the family; Dad never talked about anything and his children had inherited it.

John had talked a bit more after Mary had left. Harry didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad, since she desperately wanted Sherlock and John together again. If not that, then she wanted them to at least start talking. Harry had nothing against Mary, but she knew she wasn't the one for him. It was Sherlock and John. It was always Sherlock and John, too bad if people didn't like that.

"Ready?" Harry asked John while they stood in front of the front door of the hospital. John nodded. "Let's go then." They walked into the daylight.


	17. Chapter 17

**Gosh, all the positive replies I've got from the last two chapters really make me write faster! Keep it up! :D**

**I know these are all short scenes, but they will come to a better use later. I'm sorry about the ending.** **Sometimes, I wonder if Moffat would be proud of me.**

**Beta'd again by the wonderful 'jack63kids'. All mistakes are mine and enjoy!**

* * *

"You redecorated," John stated as he walked into the apartment. It wasn't a question.

The walls of the living room were painted green, except the one that had the windows in it. There was a rug under the coffee-table, the sofa and the chair, which were placed by the TV. The small dining table stood alongside the wall with three chairs around it; the door to the kitchen was in said wall. On the other side were the three doors; two bedrooms and one bathroom.

It was a fairly small apartment, but more cozy and colorful than John remembered it.

"Well, yeah." Harry lay the bag with John's belongings in it, down on the floor. "It's been a while since you've been here."

John immediately stopped looking around the apartment and made eye-contact with Harry. "Exactly how long?"

"Eight years," Harry answered, suddenly finding her shoes interesting. John felt a pulse of guilt. "You were in the army. You couldn't see it." Why Harry stood up for him even when he was the one who betrayed her. "Tea?" she tried to change the subject.

Harry already was in the kitchen, but John nodded anyway. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coat rack. He walked over to the chair, brushed the dust off it and sat down. Harry soon walked in with two cups of tea and gave one to John. She took a seat on the sofa.

They sat in silence for a while until John asked, "Will you finally tell me where you got my clothes?"

Harry sighed. "I honestly don't know, John. Yesterday, they just appeared in my apartment in a closed box. I don't know anything else. If I did, I'd tell you."

"And the phone? The number's in it?"

"I've no clue."

Silence.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose, but I don't know for sure."

John sniffed and raised his head.

What is it with that man? He raises questions everywhere he goes.

"Look, John," Harry leaned forward, elbows on her knees with her cup of tea in her hands. "I know he seems... difficult sometimes. And he is, but that doesn't mean he's not likable..." she sighed. "God, I'm saying this all wrong. I don't know what the right words are, John," she took a few sips from her cuppa, clearly thinking before continuing. "John, Sherlock is complicated. He's annoying, arrogant, selfish and I'm sure you can say plenty more things, just like the examples I gave you about him, but he's also a genius. You adored him, looked up to him. To be honest with you, I don't know why, but it's the truth. You liked him the first time, John. Please, give him a second chance."

"I don't have a second chance to give!"

"Johnny," Harry said softly with an extremely disappointed look on her face.

"No, Harry, for me it's the first time. Hell, not even the first time, because I haven't even _met _him, yet! You tell me he was so important in my life, but where is he? Where is the man that is - _was_ - so significant?" These weren't rhetorical questions for John, he was truly wondering about these things.

"I don't know," Harry answered, but it was barely audible.

She looked so helpless, so vulnerable. John decided he didn't want to deal with it anymore. "I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly and placed his cup on the coffee-table. He stood up, grabbed his coat and left the apartment, heading for Hyde Park.

John sighed as he realized he was walking away from a problem. Again.

* * *

"Honey, are you free tonight?" Mary asked.

Her boyfriend had just come home, tired. He was working too hard, lately. He'd come home to her, Mary suspected that was because she would take care of him. He may be working hard, but at home he was the opposite.

"Uh, I think so," she heard from the bathroom. "Do you have plans?" he asked as the bathroom door opened, still damp from the shower with a meaningful grin on his face.

Mary laughed. "Yes, I do, but they do not involve something you have in mind."

"What do you have in mind, then?" he kissed her and sat beside her on the sofa.

"I told you about John Watson, didn't I?"

"Your ex-boyfriend, the one in the hospital?"

"Yeah, him, my _friend._ Anyway, he was discharged from the hospital today, and I wondered if you'd want to meet him."

"If you want that, then of course."

"Great, I'm going to text him back, and then we'll talk about your plans."

"Talk?" he teased.

"Or not, if you aren't behaving," she warned. He immediately sobered up and waited patiently.

* * *

Mycroft wasn't the only one who had access to CCTV footage.

John looked good, without him - Sherlock didn't know if he should be happy about that or not. The bandage on top of his head was gone, there was no sign of a limp and his hair had grown - the nurses had partly shaved off his hair to see the wound. Harry must have shaved him this morning; his hand coordination wasn't very well developed yet and there was sign of stubble near his ears - Harry didn't dare to come closer to the ears, afraid that she might cut him.

He knew he shouldn't do this - it was just self-torture - but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't _not_ hack into the system. Sherlock kept telling himself that the only reason he was doing this was that this was a way to keep John safe.

He knew that wasn't true.

He missed John.

There.

That was the reason.

_But it isn't rational!_ Sherlock scolded himself.

If he couldn't see John in person, he would see him on the screen of his laptop. It was the simplest way to ease the emotions he felt inside him.

To be fair, he gave up trying to understand irrational feelings a while ago; when he and John got involved. He didn't understand the urge to comfort John, to make him feel safe or happy. John said that was all natural, but he hadn't understood it. Why is it natural to feel those suffocating emotions about one person?

Sherlock's attention was immediately focused on the screen again when John stopped walking and looked at his phone. He grinned.

He knew that grin, he had seen it so many times. But this time, it wasn't meant for Sherlock.

It was meant for Mary.

Sherlock stopped himself from growling.

_You wanted this,_ Sherlock told himself. _This is better for him. _

* * *

John couldn't feel any better; he'd got a date.

It wasn't exactly a date, nor was it only between two people, but he was going to a pub tonight with Mary. And her boyfriend.

He sighed. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but what did you expect. She had apparently moved on, and John had not. Well, he had, but he didn't remember it. It was as if everyone you knew was stood on a boat, and you wanted to go with them, but you were still on land.

His walk had put his mind on other things than Harry, but he had to deal with her again. His anger was gone, yes, but Harry didn't take fights well. He'd remembered that once he sat on the bench in the park and immediately went back to the apartment. He didn't want his sister drunk again, that would be really bad timing.

He used the keys he'd got from Harry and went inside.

"Harry?"

Nothing.

"Harry, are you in?"

Again, no response.

John grabbed his phone and dialed Harry's number.

"Hello?" he heard her say after the third ring.

"It's John, where are you?"

"At Clara's."

John frowned. "Why are you there?"

"I'll tell you later. I'm back around six, is Chinese okay?"

"Right. Um, yes, Chinese is fine."

"Okay, I'll see you then, bye."

"Bye."

He hung up and put it in his coat pocket. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coat rack. He looked around the flat as he decided what he wanted to do next. Then an idea came to mind.

He had some cleaning up to do.

* * *

"He isn't safe, as you are well aware," Mycroft stated as he stood in the doorway.

"If I wanted brotherly advice, I would have asked for it, thank you." Sherlock tried to dismiss him, but failed. He stood in his dressing gown near the window, staring out of it.

"You seem to be under the impression that he can't take care of himself," the elder brother said matter-of-factly.

"Go. Away." Sherlock tried to make things more distinct.

Mycroft ignored it. He walked over to the seat which had belonged to John and sat down on it. "He's never been safe since the day he met you."

"In his mind, he never met me," the detective said quietly, looking at his bare feet.

"Which means he's more vulnerable."

"He was in the army; he invaded Afghanistan. He'll never be vulnerable," Sherlock said more loudly this time, making eye-contact with his brother.

"I'm glad that you have finally found someone you care about," Mycroft broke eye-contact, then continued, "but he has become your weak spot. You are vulnerable, too."

"I am _not_ vulnerable." Sherlock snapped. He was on the verge of yelling.

Mycroft simply smirked. He decided it was enough and stood up. "He isn't safer without you. If any, he's less." Mycroft straightened his jacket. "Goodbye, brother. It was a pleasure." He headed for the door.

* * *

John was nervous, and Mary caused most of the nerves. But not all of them. No, it was the first time he was going out again after his incident. Whatever the 'incident' was. He'd be able to talk and interact with people, and not only with the people he knew before his unfortunate event.

He'd become normal again, at least for a little while.

After he and Harry had silently eaten Chinese as they watched some kind of make-over program on TV, John had showered and made sure he looked good. He tried on three different outfits, showing each to Harry to ask if she liked them. She'd watched John with an odd look, he'd noticed. His sister found outfit number three the best, but in the end he opted for number one; a green shirt with a black cardigan and jeans.

Now, he was in a cab, heading for the pub where Mary and John had agreed to meet. He fiddled with the buttons of his shirt as he looked outside the cab window. The car slowed down and eventually stopped.

"Sorry mate, have to stop; the police are blocking the road. Lucky for you the pub is at the end of this street," the cabby said.

"Right, here you go," John handed him some money. "Thanks," he said before he exited the cab.

There was police tape on one side of the road across the entrance to a house. Police cars were parked within and outside the blockade. John crossed the road and walked on the pavement alongside the tape. He thought he heard someone calling his name, but he ignored it.

_Probably just in my head,_ John thought.

At the corner, he entered the pub. He saw Mary immediately, the fact that she was waving was probably a factor to that. Once he was near their table, he saw a guy with dark brown hair sitting with her.

"Hi, John," she kissed him on the cheek and John smiled. She introduced them as the guy stood up to give John a hand, he took it without hesitating. "James, this is John Watson. John, this is James Moriarty."


	18. Chapter 18

**Easter-egg for johnsarmylady. :) Beta'd by the lovely jack63kids, thank you! All mistakes are mine.**

**Also, I feel like complimenting everybody today (I think this is because of the snow that fell today in Holland and my birthday on Thursday, but it's just a hunch) so I want to say that you, my beloved readers, are gorgeous and awesome for reading the story and reviewing, favoriting and following it even if I'm suffering from writers-block form time to time. **

**Happy reading!**

* * *

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted the DI as he ducked under the yellow tape and walked over to him.

He stood in the doorway with his arms folded, leaning against the open door. The small area of the street was filled with police cars and blocked by yellow tape. The DI met Sherlock in the middle.

"Why are you here?" Lestrade asked.

"You texted me," Sherlock said impatiently, with a frown.

"I texted you a lot within the last two months. Why do you suddenly turn up at a crime scene?" Lestrade asked more clearly, an eyebrow raised.

"I've been busy," Sherlock answered tonelessly. "If you'll excuse me, I've a body to investigate."

Sherlock tried to walk past Lestrade but he was stopped by the DI. "Hold on, you're not going anywhere until I have some proper answers." He saw Sherlock grit his teeth. "Where's John?"

"A _dead_ body." Sherlock tried to change the subject, but was failing.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned sternly. "All I want is some a-" he said softly, but he stopped once he saw a familiar figure walking at the opposite side of the street. The DI expected him to come to where they were standing, but he didn't walk towards them; he simply walked along the pavement heading somewhere else. Sherlock must have noticed something had caught Lestrade's eye because he looked over his shoulder to the exact same spot he was looking. Sherlock's head snapped towards the detective inspector, but it was too late. "John!"

The consulting detective grabbed Lestrade by his arm and pulled him inside. "Don't," he simply said.

"Why isn't he here, with you? Why did he ignore us?" When Lestrade was only answered by silence, and Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes, he tried again. "I know you won't tell me anything, but I feel this is serious. You need someone to talk to."

"Don't," Sherlock said again, the grey-haired man would have said he was pleading if he hadn't known Sherlock. His face was sad, more than sad. The spark was gone from his eyes and they seem to be more icy than usual. Lestrade only then noticed that his hair was messy and the wind hadn't caused it. His skin was grayer and Lestrade could even find a sign of scruff here and there.

_Whatever this is_, he thought,_ it's serious_.

He swallowed and then answered the only thing he could as a friend. "Okay," he nodded and they both walked upstairs, to the crime scene.

* * *

"Pleasure to meet you," James said.

"Nice to meet you too," John replied with a forced smile. "So, can I get you a drink?

"Oh no, please don't. This round is on me. What can I get you?" James offered.

"Um, just a coke, please."

"Can I get a white wine, sweetie?" Mary asked.

"Of course," he said and walked away.

"Do you like him?" she asked when James was out of earshot.

John liked James, despite the crush he had for Mary. He was a nice bloke, John could tell. His clothing was well-matched and neat. There were no signs of stains, creases or holes. His hair was carefully groomed and his jaw was clean-shaven. His black leather shoes were shiny and polished. This obviously was a guy who cared for his appearance and he and Mary fitted perfectly. Unfortunately.

John just nodded at Mary's question. He sat down as Mary did the same and sat in front of him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice full of concern and curiosity.

"I'm fine," he said as gently and quiet as possible, not wanting to reveal too much. The bar was much too crowded for talking about medical issues.

Mary wanted to say something more because her mouth had opened, but she closed it again when James approached them with their drinks. "Here you are," he said as he handed them both their drinks. He sat down on the opposite side of the table next to Mary with a beer in front of him, still in his hands.

"So, what do you do for living?" John asked James, as he took a sip from his drink.

"Nothing special really. I own the business, so I have to work in the office a lot. Not that I mind - it's never dull - although a life in the office isn't the most fun lifestyle either." He offered a smile and John found himself returning it. They both took a sip from their drinks before James continued. "There isn't something in particular that we do, but there isn't really anything I haven't done. And when I mean 'done', I actually mean 'organize', because I don't like making my hands dirty." There was that shy smile again, but John avoided it and took a sip from his drink instead.

The rest of the evening had been fun. James and Mary mostly chatted, sometimes giving John the time to actually speak, but he didn't care about that. It wasn't that he had loads to talk about. If anything, he had questions. But the people he was with this evening couldn't provide him any answers. _Maybe that's a good_ thing, John thought.

* * *

There was something heavy on his chest and it wasn't the thick coat he wore. John stepped out of a room, into a larger one. There was someone there, someone he knew and cared about, but John didn't recognize him. Then suddenly, another man was in the room. There was a tension hanging in the air. The men talked, but John found himself only looking at the first man. For some reason he didn't dare to turn around. He just stood there, stiffly, hearing the vague words of the men he couldn't place. Suddenly, the details were vivid.

Red dots.

A melody.

Yelling.

A door slamming shut.

Silence.

Talking.

Laughter.

Then he was in a different room. There were more people now, both beside him and below him. But his attention wasn't on them. It was on the two men who were standing out in particular. It wasn't long before John recognized them as the same men from the last room. The second man turned around, looked at John and was smiling.

John woke up with a start. He breathed heavily and tried to calm himself down. His throat was sore. Had he been screaming? If so, he hoped he hadn't woken up Harry. He would much rather have her not entering his room and ask him questions. But he didn't even know where Harry was.

When he had returned to Harry's flat she hadn't been there. What he _did_ find, was a mess. Cushions were on the ground, the cupboards were open, the vase on the coffee-table with the flower in it lay down on the ground, glass shattered. He'd sighed. He hadn't wanted to tidy up her mess, so he hadn't. He'd a suspicion about what she was looking for, but he didn't allow himself to feel disappointed until he knew for sure.

He closed his eyes again and tried to sleep without having any nightmares. He would think about them later. He dozed off after a few minutes.

* * *

"Where are you?" Sherlock heard a shrill, and angry voice throughout the flat and recognized it immediately as he stepped out of the shower. He sighed dramatically, toweled himself off and quickly put on all of his clothes. "Where the _bloody _hell are you?" the slurred voice sounded as he heard loud thumps through the walls. He stepped out of the bathroom in a hurry but unwillingly, he wasn't in the mood for visits. Especially not this one. "There y'are," Harry muttered to herself, walking to Sherlock.

She wasn't walking in a straight line, but neither was she completely awry. _Used to being drunk: alcoholic._ There was a hint of determination in her stride. _Determined to do something: she had a reason to come here._ Her eyes didn't leave Sherlock's as she walked. _Her reason has to do something with me: anger? _The last visit was because of him._ Conclusion: another dull lecture._

"I won't be repeating myself," he stated indifferently and in a matter of fact tone.

Either she hadn't heard Sherlock or she ignored him, but she showed no reaction. "You," she said as she came to a halt, poking him in the chest with her forefinger.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific," Sherlock said.

"You," she repeated, her voice slurring. "I want to slap you," she grumbled as she raised her hand and tried to do so, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist easily. You'd be an idiot if you hadn't seen that coming; a warning _and_ a drunk? Please. "Let me go," she tugged at her hand to get it back. But Sherlock wasn't going to let her go just yet.

"He wouldn't be very happy with you," he said quietly, surprised at the growl in his voice. They both knew who he meant by 'he', even if she was drunk.

"John misses you," she blurted out. Sherlock noticed how vulnerable she looked before her face twisted again in anger. "I said, let me go." she tugged her hand with more force now and he let it go. She immediately stepped away from him.

"He can't miss me," Sherlock denied, "he doesn't know me."

"He does," she answered and he frowned, not knowing which statement she was referring to. "He is-" she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of a word. When it finally came, Sherlock's chest felt heavy. "-unhappy." Her dazed and unclear eyes were open again, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. Then, she looked around. "D'you have any booze?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _So predictable, _he thought. He had no idea how she could be John's relative. _I should do a DNA test._ He mentally shook himself to get his mind back on track. "You should go home," he commanded, rather than asked.

She began speaking but he tuned her out, walking to the door with her and then slammed the door shut.

* * *

John was walking in the park, heading for the spot he and Mary had agreed to meet.

John smiled happily as he smelled the typical scent of outside. Somehow he missed being outside. He never knew why he loved being outside, but he suspected it had a great deal to do with the feeling of freedom when he was outdoors. In Afghanistan he didn't have that freedom. Of course, he was outside most of the time, but he couldn't take a stroll. The chances were high of being injured badly if you just wondered about.

Arriving on the spot, he found Mary wasn't there. Well, that was perfectly understandable; he had arrived early. He was eager to get out of his sister's flat; sadly his suspicion had been true. Harry had started drinking again. He had no idea why he'd thought she stopped. She was a typical drinker. It was unfortunate, to say the least, but John had learned to deal with it.

After her bad reaction earlier this morning to finding out John had thrown all the alcohol there was in the flat away, it wasn't very surprising when he caught himself thinking about searching for a new flat to live in. Then he immediately felt guilty about thinking of leaving her, again. He kept telling himself that it was okay to not want to watch your sister ruin her life.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mary. She'd approached him without him noticing. "Ready for a coffee?" she asked with a charming smile on her face.

John immediately brightened up. "Lovely," he replied as he stood up and they both walked to the cafe.

"I have a big announcement to make," she said cheerfully after a long, comforting silence.

"Tell me," John smiled, wanting to know what made her so happy.

"You know that apartment I was talking about," she waited for John to reply and he nodded, confirmation for her to continue. "Well, it's confirmed. I'm going to move there and James is moving in with me."

"Oh, that's great," John forced himself to smile and talk in a cheerful voice. Her grin grew when she saw his smile.

The rest of their five minute walk to the cafe was silent but for a few 'it's a nice morning, isn't it?' type comments. When they had got their coffees, they carried them outside to the park again. When they reached another park bench, they sat on it and looked around for a few moments while sipping their coffees.

"Can I ask you something?" John asked carefully.

"But of course," Mary seemed surprised. "You don't have to ask permission to ask me anything."

"When you asked me last evening, 'do you like him?', what did you mean by that?" Mary seemed confused and opened her mouth to say something but John stopped her before she could say something. "I mean, why did you want my opinion?" he added quickly.

"Because I care about you," she said with no shame. "I know it was fairly early in the evening, but I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable for the rest of the night. Plus, your opinion matters to me."

"Oh, well." He cleared his throat. "Right."

He wanted to say the same about her, that he cared about her but he couldn't find the right words. He could make up a few good reasons for that. Firstly, he had only known her for a few days. Secondly, it might come out wrong. Thirdly, she had a boyfriend. Fourthly, that relationship was serious. He didn't want to come between them. Besides, he wasn't really the type to ruin a relationship.

The silence that followed was once again comfortable. He sighed contently, trying to enjoy being in the accompany of Mary and being outdoors.

* * *

**We'll get through this.**

**Together.**


	19. Chapter 19

**(A pretty long A/N. Sorry.)**

**Happy Valentines day! I hope it wasn't as lonely as mine had been. **

**I will not - actually, it's 'can't' - write for this week and the next, because this week I'll be pretty damn busy. As for the next week, I will go to Austria from early Saturday to next week Sunday. I'm so excited to go snowboarding again, but I hate it that I cannot write for almost two weeks. Though, I will write some drafts when I have the time. Perhaps the next update takes even longer: after my holiday, the next two weeks will also be very busy. I hope the next chapter will come sooner of course, but I can't do anything about it if it takes a long time. I'm sorry for this.**

**I hope this chapter will make up to it as much as I tried it to be.**

**Beta'd by 'jack63kids', thanks so much.**

**Also, I'm so flattered by all your reviews and alerts and such. You've no idea how much it makes me smile, and I'm encouraged to write faster.**

**Please, enjoy this story.**

* * *

"I don't know if I'm right to saying this," James began, "but I met Holmes, once."

"Yeah?" John asked. They'd agreed to meet in the same pub they'd met previously. John wanted to escape Harry's flat after she had got drunk again, and James was so kind to agree. He took a sip from his beer and asked, "How?"

"My best friend, Sebastian, had disappeared for a few days," James stared at his beer. "I grew concerned, it wasn't anything like him to disappear for so long. The police said they couldn't do anything. When I heard of Sherlock Holmes through a friend, I was immensely happy and I thought that was my only chance to find him. I went to this great detective I heard of, and you know what he said?" he paused, drank from his beer and locked eyes with John. His eyes were full of sorrow and grief, John noticed. "He said that it was _boring,_ it wasn't worth his time."

"What happened to Sebastian?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"He turned up dead a month later," James answered.

"I'm sorry to hear that, mate. Let's drink on your friend," John clinked James' beer with his own. "Cheers," he said just before they both took a large gulp from it. Silence fell again, although it was a comfortable one, and John broke it with a bitter and silent laugh. When James shot him a questionable look, John explained, "I hear everything but good about the man. I don't know how I was friends with him, let alone more."

"Can't tell ya, sorry," James smiled wryly. "The world can be mad, sometimes."

They ended up talking for another two hours, and John entered the drunk, he would say, but it was nothing compared to Harry's state. A figure which he recognized as his sister was lying down on the sofa. John hastily walked over to Harry, checking her pulse and breathing. Once he checked she was still alive and breathing, he sighed in relief and walked over to his bedroom.

When Harry came back into her flat drunk for the first time John had stayed, he had decided, after this many times, it was enough and had searched online for rehabilitation clinics. A day later, a brochure about a fancy and expensive clinic fell on the doormat. Harry hadn't seen it, luckily, and John wanted to keep it, just to be sure. He grabbed the brochure from under his mattress and searched for a phone number. He'd already seen that it was a 24-hour service, so he knew it was possible to call at this time. Because his sister was passed out, John realized this might be his only chance to call.

He made an appointment for the following day, two o'clock.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home!" Moriarty sang as he stepped into 221B. When Sherlock didn't reply, he continued. "Oh, come on, a game is being played, you should be excited. But then, I suppose, you aren't very thrilled after what happened with your beloved pet."

"After what _you_ did," Sherlock corrected, mentally kicking himself for giving in so easily. He actually thought he wasn't going to speak to the other man. The detective guided the criminal to the chair and Moriarty took Sherlock's chair again rather than the chair that had once been John's.

"No, you're wrong about that," Jim said, using his American accent, and made a mocking sound. "I didn't do _anything,_ he brought that head injury thingy on himself."

Sherlock felt anger boiling just under the surface of his skin. He hated how Moriarty played. Innocent. Childish. Unfair. Clever. It was because of Jim Moriarty he had made the choice of leaving John in the first place. Moriarty was the cause, the liability, the one who pushed Sherlock over the edge. _Wouldn't be the first time, _Sherlock thought grimly. But Moriarty wasn't the only one who made him angry. He made himself angry, too. For not being there for John. For making John suffer. For being trapped into Moriarty's game.

Moriarty made a sound of disgust. "Why do you have to be so _emotional_? Lately, I don't think you're worth my time anymore," he said.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked.

"Ooh," Moriarty whistled, "straight to the point. There's the Sherlock I know." He smiled proudly.

Sherlock only stared, making sure his face wasn't showing emotions this time.

"Fine," the criminal said childlike, and sighed. "I don't want anything at the moment. I'm quite content now. I'm moving in with my girlfriend, and her ex approves of me. Although, I don't like the way he's looking at her -"

_He's only trying to get you out of your shell_. _He's not worth a reply. Don't reply. He's doing this on purpose. Don't reply._

"- but I think we can be friends. Don't you?" he mused.

_Do NOT reply,_ Sherlock told himself sternly. He clenched his jaw.

Moriarty laughed as he tipped his head back. "I like the way you're squirming. No, I don't like, I _love. _For someone who doesn't show his emotions, who hates _feelings, _you're amazingly easy to hurt. Look at me." His talking slowed down, enunciating every word clearly. He hung his head for a moment, and when he looked up again, Sherlock was met with an intense gaze he knew all too well; wide-eyes, mouth serious, head tipped to one side. "I'm stabbing a knife into you. You do nothing. I'm twisting it." He leaned forwards and spoke dangerously. "And again, you do absolutely nothing to prevent it." He leaned back into Sherlock's chair and acted like all was good in the world. It probably was, for him. "You're cute when you're hurt," Moriarty smiled sweetly.

Sherlock had been all too aware of Moriarty becoming friends with John. Sherlock hadn't been sitting lazily on his backside, after all. He couldn't blame John: if it was anyone's fault Moriarty was so involved, it was his. Even more reasons to stay away from John, but something was nagging at Sherlock's mind. Even now, when he took a step back from John, John was in danger. Of course, it was less dangerous than when Sherlock was close to him, but Moriarty was beginning to get involved in John's new life. That wasn't acceptable.

Sherlock had two choices. One, he could step back and completely disappear from John's life, hoping that he wouldn't be in danger anymore and Moriarty wouldn't get more involved - and that wasn't likely to happen, Sherlock realized - or, he could step into John's life again - hoping that they'd regrow their friendship - and protect him. However, on the latter choice, Sherlock knew with 82% accuracy that John would be in more danger.

It was as if he must choose between two impossible choices.

"You're no fun anymore." Sherlock was snapped back to reality by Moriarty's voice. "Well, I'm leaving, I have a date with my wonderful and understanding, oh-so gullible, little _bitch,_" he said bitterly, stood up and left.

He said something else before he left, but Sherlock wasn't listening anymore - something he should kick himself for: it wasn't like him to not pay attention, at least not if someone like Moriarty was sitting in front of you, but he couldn't help himself. His mind filled itself with the realization of the choice, of _John_, chance-calculations for both of the choices, plans, a little voice in his mind vaguely reminding him of the almost-overdue experiment in the shower, and much to Sherlock's distaste: he felt panic.

For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do.

* * *

"You did _what_?" Harry asked, her voice threatening and quiet with rage.

It wasn't like her brother to betray her, but somewhere she had seen it coming. After all, they saw each other everyday, instead of ignoring their siblings' existence like they had done when Harry moved out, leaving John behind. Their family hadn't been close at all, and when their parents died, they didn't speak to each other. Why John all of a sudden felt caring towards her, Harry didn't know.

"You heard me." John shrugged, feigning indifference, although Harry could see his tensed shoulders. She might be a drunk like everybody claimed, but she wasn't an idiot. "We _are_ going. You need it," he said sternly.

"And you need protection," she replied. "You're still recovering, John."

"Stop changing the subject, Harry," he said, the anger finally breaking through his voice. "I can take care of myself perfectly well."

"Yeah?" Harry said skeptically. "You were alone the last time." That was true: as far as she knew, he was alone when the accident - or whatever it had been - happened. "Look where it got you."

"I'll be fine." He empathized every word. "Now, put your coat on, because it's a long ride."

Anger flared up and Harry wanted to let it out, but at the same time an idea had come to mind. She tried to stop the grin that threatened to show on her face, but she failed. "No," she said, straightening her back. "I won't be going-"

"Don't make me drag you," he retorted, and was surprised he almost growled. "You will be going."

"Then let me finish," Harry said, holding back a sigh, and John looked surprised. She continued, "I won't be going until you agree to visit Sherlock. I will go willingly, if that happens." John looked considered, but not convinced. "_Please_," she added quickly. Although the begging was a bit exaggerated, it wasn't wholly fake.

Much as suspected, John agreed with a slow nod. "Okay," he said, but more to himself than to her. "But if not, I'm not keeping my promises, either."

She allowed herself to grin wider as she put on her coat, but it fell once she realized where they were heading.

* * *

The appointment, much to John's surprise, went well. Even more to his surprise, his sister actually looked attentive while they were talking and asking questions. They had been given a guided tour, and it was easy to notice the facility was, as expected, fancy and expensive-looking, as far as a rehabilitation clinic can look fancy.

But the seemingly fancy and expensive clinic wasn't expensive at all. John had been pleasantly surprised when he saw the price on the leaflet he'd been handed. He was fairly sure he could pay the amount if he could find a job. _If._ Employers - especially the ones who worked in the medical field - usually wanted someone emotionally stable. How much it pained him to admit, John wasn't emotionally stable. He simply wasn't. He wasn't sure he'd ever been after the Army, given his last memories of it.

Perhaps not even physically stable.

John looked at his left hand, lay his fork down and started to clench and stretch it. He'd noticed it occasionally trembled, the first time after he went to the bar to meet Mary and James. It was damned irritating, if not inept. The hand didn't hurt, but his left shoulder did. The one with the bullet hole. The last of his memory that had been undamaged.

"Don't mope around, Johnny," Harry teased, still with her mouth full of dinner. John hated that nickname since ever she had first used it, although he wasn't sure when that was. "Your sister's coming back. It's not for ever, but you can visit me, if you like."

John ignored her teasing. "You're really going, then? No problems or excuses?"

"Well, I have to, don't I?" she shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. John knew from experience that sending her back to a rehabilitation clinic wasn't easy for her. The last time ended quite... chaotically. When John sent her a questioning look, she responded, "Otherwise you would never go visit Sherlock."

The last time she'd been so serious was in John's grey room in the hospital. "Is it that important to you?"

"Yes," she said while making eye-contact. He couldn't be more proud of her.

"Okay." If it meant so much to her, he couldn't do anything other than agreeing to it.

"When will you be going?" Harry broke the silence that had fallen.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Where does he live, anyway?"

"221B Baker Street." She smiled.

John just nodded. He changed the subject, "Do I need to help you pack your bags? After all, you've got a big day tomorrow." He partly smiled and partly grinned. Luckily, they had been told they had a free spot left in the clinic: Harry could move in whenever she wanted. She had sighed at that information, and said to John she wanted to get it over with. That meant tomorrow.

Harry threw a pillow at him. "Fuck you," she said halfheartedly. "But yes, I do want your help. Less work for me, if you do."

"Then I won't help you, you're a big girl after all."

"Hey! You offered, you can't refuse now."

"Says who?"

"Says your sister, who you have loved all of your life."

John snorted and took a bite of his dinner. He grimaced and said, "Look at what you've done! Because of all your talking, my dinner has got cold."

"Not my fault, and there's nothing I can do about it. You're a big boy after all," she quoted him from earlier, then laughed and John joined her. After a few minutes of laughing on the sofa - that had felt incredibly relieving, considering what they both had gone through - Harry's laugh subsided. "But, John, you will visit me, right?"

Quickly, John's laughter died down too. "Yes, of course."

"Great, you could tell me all about Sherlock, then." She grinned.

John raised his eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn't know what to say, really. He didn't know how to feel, either. He'd visit a forgotten friend who had been more than that, literal in John's case. He wasn't sure how he was going to handle this, nor how Sherlock - it was still a weird name, he couldn't get quite used to it - would react to him. After all, Sherlock had been avoiding him.

_Oh well,_ John thought. He'd a night to sleep on it, and he would definitely use it.


	20. Chapter 20

**The only thing I can say is that I'm truly sorry about the delay. I have no excuses. If you feel the need to shout at me for not hurrying up with a chapter in the future, feel free to send me a PM. Or you can just shout at me for the hiatus. I don't blame you.**

**Also, I wanted to say an immense thank you to the people who've reviewed/favorited/followed this story! It really means a lot to me and it helps me continue writing. **

**This chapter is, again, beta'd by jack63kids. Thanks for beta-ing so quickly!**

* * *

His mind stood still. Almost frozen. For once in its lifetime, it was silent. _He_ was silent. He'd stopped moving, trying to understand what was happening, but it was to no avail: his mind didn't seem to be able to wrap around this.

John had once again surprised him. The fact itself wasn't so surprising, he wouldn't put up with another human if they weren't interesting.

Sherlock had tried to come up with plans to gain John's friendship - he daren't hope for anything more. Oh, he had ideas, plans, but they weren't _good_ enough for some reason. Normally he would have a plan in mind within minutes that would be best for the situation, but not this time. This situation was delicate, and Sherlock wouldn't dare to destroy whatever they had left. A part of him just wanted to accept the situation, and he thought he'd done that in the beginning. Apparently not, because it had been proven at the exact moment he saw the familiar blonde-haired man with friendly blue eyes sitting _on the sofa in 221B. _

Why Sherlock hadn't noticed it was John instead of a new client as he'd first thought, was beyond him. After waiting for a moment for his mind to restart, he recalled the signs that should have been obvious: the photograph downstairs in the hallway had been moved less than an inch; Mrs. Hudson had a certain gleam in her eyes; trails from mud in north-west London on the doormat and on the stairs.

_Idiot._

Sherlock eyed John. _Fiddling with his sleeves and eyes on me, however, no eye-contact. _The army doctor was nervous, obviously. _Shoulders tense and eyes moving fast. _Doesn't want to be here. _Mouth opening and closing multiple times, and frowns. _Wants to say something, but holds back. So he's interested, but in what? In his earlier life or in Sherlock?

Unlike his mind, his heart was pumping loudly and steadily as he hoped it was the latter.

"Why are you here?" He winced after he asked. He hadn't meant to sound so blunt, but he couldn't correct it now. Yes, he could say something else, but he didn't know what else to say, except for sentences that would make him sound stupid. Plus, it was the truth. He didn't know why John was here. The man had a reason to be here - looking for more data - but Sherlock felt as if that reason had been outweighed by Sherlock himself. John would appreciate the truth.

"I- um," John began, sounding unintelligent as ever in the times he wasn't at his best. And even those times were rare. "Who's the woman downstairs?"

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady," Sherlock answered, waving a dismissive hand. The only thing you could hear in the awkward silence that fell - which Sherlock promptly ignored - while he undid his blue scarf and coat was the rustle of the garment.

"Right, um," he murmured, apparently feeling the need to use unintelligible words again. Sherlock wanted to sneer or snap something at him that would point out John's incoherence, but found that he couldn't. As said before, this was a delicate situation and he might hurt the other man. He couldn't hurt John - neither did he want to. Not ever, but especially not now. Not when he was vulnerable. Not now, when John needed him the most, although the man himself hadn't even realised it. Not now, when their friendship was at stake. "Harry... you know who Harry is?"

"Of course I do," he tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

"She's in rehab."

A pause.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock asked as he stretched a leg to step forward, but retreated once he remembered he must be gentle and as comforting as possible. Body language was a important part in this, he'd once read.

John resembled a fish at the moment, his mouth open and his eyes big and wide. Suddenly, John's expression changed into a neutral and distant one. His voice, also, changed. It was firm, cold and accusing instead of confused and puzzled. "Why didn't you stay? I've been told you were significant in my life."

A pause again, because Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. Well, he _did_ know what to say, but nothing would suffice at the moment. Sherlock chose to say silent for that reason.

"Harry was right," John said as if he'd decided something. He stood up from the sofa and straightened his jacket. "You _are_ an arrogant, selfish bastard."

"John."

"I never should've come here." Sherlock could hear John mutter when he walked past him.

The detective was frozen to the spot. He couldn't do anything more than follow John down the stairs with his eyes until he couldn't see him anymore. He heard the door open, the noise of the traffic outside briefly loudening, and then he heard it slam shut. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled audibly as he muttered words Mummy had taught him not to use to himself under his breath.

* * *

"How did it go?" Harry sounded curious and way too cheerful, despite their surroundings.

They sat on cheap chairs, a plastic table in between. John was surprised this facility had even cheap furniture. They had been given their own private - at least, John thought so; you could never be sure - room to meet and talk. The walls were painted light blue and grey, and a window made the room look a lot brighter and more cheerful than it actually was. However cheerful it looked, it still felt as if this was some sort of captivity.

_It is,_ John thought to himself guiltily.

Harry looked awful, the opposite of her tone of voice. She had rings under her eyes - John had wondered how she got those so fast: this was only her second day after all - and her hair was a mess. She was alert, but looked bored. He didn't know to feel happy or sad, when he noticed Harry's shaking hands. But still, he had pity for her.

He didn't answer, only made eye-contact with her. He tried to show his answer in his eyes, because he certainly didn't want to talk about it. He would sound like a child who couldn't handle himself, who needed help desperately. He'd not admit it of course, but he was rather desperate. Sherlock was his only chance and now he'd thrown that away.

Harry's hopeful look faltered immediately. "Why, what happened?"

John ignored her questions. "You said-" he began, but stopped himself before he gave too much away about how he was feeling. It wasn't as if he cared about Sherlock - well, he _had_, but he'd no memories of him. How could he care, then? The only thing he cared about right now was knowing what he'd done.

"John, what did he say? Whatever he said, I'm sure he didn't mean it the way you interpret it. He's a complicated man. You can see that. Don't give up on him yet."

_Harry Watson, alcoholic and drama queen,_ he thought. He hummed as an confirmation to reply to Harry, and decided he didn't want to talk about this anymore. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." She rolled her eyes. "Clara promised me to visit me in two days."

"Really?" John was happy for her. Harry deserved some kind of reward for willingly signing into this institution.

They proceeded to talk about the furniture and the news and other small things for the rest of the visiting hour. As he left the building, he realized the conversation may have been the longest one he'd yet had with his sister.

* * *

He sat in a room. No, it was a _living_ room. The surrounding was familiar, however, he couldn't quite place it. Despite not knowing where he really was, he was still calm. And sad.

Why was he sad?

Not only _he_ was sad. There was something very sad about this room, too. The whole building, actually, John noticed as he focused on the feeling. There was some kind of loneliness, like something was missing. Yet, he didn't leave.

Why not?

His cheeks felt wet when he woke up.

Tears.

Single tears ran down in his cheek calmly and peacefully.

Why he couldn't stop the crying was beyond him, but luckily it did stop when he was showering the following morning.

* * *

"I have... dreams," John started. Perhaps the John before the mysterious accident would stay stubborn and not give any reasonable answers to his therapist, but the new John wanted answers. "Dreams that don't feel like dreams, however vague that may sound. Not nightmares, either."

John stayed silent for a long time, and apparently that was too long for Diane, because she broke the silence. "Tell me about them."

John frowned, trying to think about the dreams. He remembered them, although a bit vaguely. He especially remembered the intensity of them, and maybe that was why they didn't feel normal. "I- I can't," he swallowed.

"How do they feel?"

"A bit familiar. I recognize some things, but not all of them. It's as if..." No. No, that's silly. It can't be.

She scribbled something down on her notepad and then asked, "Can you tell me about the last one you had?"

He felt a twinge of annoyance when she repeated the same thing after he'd said no. "I told you I couldn't."

"And I don't believe you." She put her notepad on the table beside her and leaned more to the front, towards him. "John, I'm here to help you."

Right. John closed his eyes, trying to remember the last dream he'd had. "Last night, I sat in a living room. I felt... sadness. The room was depressing for me, somehow. I was-" he paused, thinking hard, "packing?"

He could hear Diane writing something on her notepad again. "Go on," he heard her say invitingly.

He tried to remember what had happened in his dream in detail, he really did, but he just couldn't do it. "I can't," John said again.

"Why not?"

"It's like..." John began and succeeded to think of something to compare his mind with. "It's like wanting to grab something that lies behind a glass wall. You can see it, but you can't reach it." He opened his eyes. "Does that make sense?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she gave him a small smile and continued to write on her notepad. Obviously, there was something behind his words and she could hear them, but John could not, which was frustrating in the highest degree.

* * *

The next time John dreamt one of the dreams, it wasn't so intense. He stood in a supermarket, waiting in the queue before a pin-and-chip machine. Somehow, he felt resentment towards it. The second time he dreamt, he got to see an image of Christmas, just an image, of him with some woman on the sofa, Sherlock standing, and a few others in the room. In the third, Harry had a Mickey Mouse hairband on. You know, the kind you can buy in Disneyland. One second she was wearing it, the next he had a beer in his hand and the garment on his head.

The fourth was somewhat familiar, like he'd had that one already. He only recognized the man in his dream in the morning after, to his surprise. The man was James. James had been staring at him, a creepy glint in his eyes. John had woken up sweating and panting.

After that dream, they only got worse: running in the screaming desert; abandoning a fatally wounded man in the middle of the heat, with the only reason being that John would stay alive; a pregnant woman dying in his arms, and finally, the last one he'd had recently and the last thing he remembered: getting ambushed and hit in the shoulder.

As the dreams got worse and worse, the nights grew longer and longer. At some point in the month, he only was getting a limited three hours of sleep per night. He needed help, he knew that, but he didn't want Eszipiclone, Triazolam, or any other sleeping pills. He wanted to stay attentive, instead of being drugged.

A day before he was due to have another appointment with his therapist, he started limping.


End file.
